I took back my college reading list, hid from Tom behind a crispy Tristam Shandy, unread but bookmarked with a yellowed Dear John, an opera played upon a Sahara of pages foxed by dribbled Scotch. So much depends on expectation, to sing for supper, to sleep fat after long affectations dull their edges. We’ll defend our sense of self, Tom, back to back in the field of play, where euphemism’s our weapon of choice, and never more will reason slouch forlorn in this study, vessels ambered by fire, beneath smirking hands, at two and ten, of the mantle clock.
About the Poet:
George Rawlins has recent publications in Chiron Review, The Common, New Critique (UK), New World Writing, and One Hand Clapping (UK). He lives in California. His forthcoming poetry collection, Cheapside Afterlife (April 2021, Longleaf Press at Methodist University), reimagines in 57 sonnets the life of the 18th-century poet Thomas Chatterton.
This poem is a spirited fireside chat worth drinking in. Thank you George.
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