A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
The weary talk, the crime scene tape, the crowd—
you’ve seen it all—and then we recognize
the taciturn offender, still unbowed,
who treats the evidence with feigned surprise
although it seems that we’ve been here before,
have seen it all, and then we recognize
a snatch of dialogue, a look, and more—
half-remembered moments, half obscure
although it seems that we’ve been here before.
“I think we’ve seen this crap, but I’m not sure.”
“It works much better if you stay awake.”
Half-remembered moments, half obscure,
filled with pretense for the story’s sake;
the two of you, the screen, the same old plot,
“It works much better if you stay awake.”
And there’s another in the next time slot:
the weary talk, the crime scene tape, the crowd—
the two of you, the screen, the same old plot:
the taciturn offender, still unbowed.
Michael Cantor resides on Plum Island, north of Boston on the Massachusetts coast, with a wife, a cat, and far too many books, woks and condiments. A chapbook, The Performer, is available from Pudding House Press.