This Place is Rammed

It’s Aries season and here’s a poem for Colin Herd’s birthday last week.

πŸ”₯β™ˆπŸ”₯β™ˆπŸ”₯β™ˆπŸ”₯β™ˆπŸ”₯β™ˆ

This Place is Rammed

The canteen was a dream canteen. No, it wasn’t on Mars!
I sat beside Colin Herd in a supervision that seemed to exist
horizoned on the kind of table I want to call cherrywood
is the word for anything darker and 
sweeter than pine. He asks
if I’ve been writing lately. A poem, β€œThe old 
acid pit of the heart.” I turn sideways 
to offer him a Ready Salted Walkers Crisp.
We talk publishing. I am courageous and yet 
worry about waiting for lunch.

β€œO happy birthday!” 
it occurs to me
that I am a day or so late. 
I know he’s an Aries because 
everywhere in the dream I see red. 
It’s so busy. We’re not even
just a vibe. The packet 
of crisps is obviously red. The flames
in new-lit candles. The irate cadmium
aura of waiters, who should get better pay. 
I’m wearing red corduroy flares 
like in the Bob Perelman poem 
we heard last spring on Zoom. I’m showing 
a loss. Is cherrywood red?
I’m stuck in my chair. The sound of the crunch of
the crisp is red. Colin’s drinking 
a bright red thing with Campari & grenadine
Denise would approve of. Everything
is totally youthful. Will Colin eat
the big slice of blood orange? 
Tell me a glorious story!

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