WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, OLD POET?

where have you been, old poet?
we’ve been sitting, dying, rocking
in old wicker chairs made of impatience
waiting for you to return breath
to the holes inbetween our heart and lungs
waiting for you to return
wind to spin crossroad signs
pointing north south east west
and we are sore-assed and tired
from sitting, twiddling our stupid thumbs
hoping, just really really hoping
that you decided
to come back home
for thanksgiving
and that the taste of the food
that you grew up eating
that raised your soul
into the full-grown suited man it’s become
would be enough
to make you stay for christmas
because your lanky words
are the only ones
that could reach up
to put the makeshift star
on top of our blue christmas tree
and maybe just maybe
you’ll find gunshots
in the crackle of jesus night fire places
or maybe just maybe
you’ll find solace
in the prison that you carpeted
and renovated and guerrilla crocheted
the prison bars of
and maybe you’ll drink
whiskey or just thick crude typewriter ink
but either way
we are so glad to see your pale face
and please
eat something
you look so god damn skinny
and we’ve all been sitting, dying, rocking
in old wicker chairs made of impatience
for you to reclaim your throne
amongst the broken branches
and the ugly paintings hidden
in the walls of our chests

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

Happy one year anniversary to all of my readers. I’ve been gone, but I’m feeling good about poetry and hope to get the gears turning again.

Love,
Brice

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

17 thoughts on “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, OLD POET?”

      1. Me, not too bad for an old dog! Writing my blog, dropped off facebook I miss our Gorilla days, and you are you well…cheers Ken

  1. Yeah where the hell have you been? You are a sorely missed wonderful voice hereabouts. And this poem is exactly why you are missed. Give us more. Give us lots. Keep it coming.

  2. Grit and bones and sharp eyes poking holes in the sly fabric of things. A thankless task, but it must be done and continued to be done…..

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