Sunday Matinee, by David Chorlton

I am not a silent poet

The lady was a reckless rider
in the light rail car,
standing up to shake her hips
with the beer in her plastic cup
washing up the sides and threatening
to spill over upon
those of us just minding
our own businesses, which she
appropriated for herself
and campaigned for an end
to being miserable: an apt
description for how it felt
to be in her intoxicated shadow
while the smoothly running
wheels carried us along
our route to baseball
or ballet.
……………….The program
was all Balanchine, with its
angular grace and depictions
of sin and redemption, the struggle
to be human, and a jealous
woman’s vanity
leading to a fine finale with
her erstwhile suitor lying dead
to a knife wound in the chest.
Meanwhile, outdoors
………………………………..the temperature
was rising, and a certain
melancholy overflowed
the bars whose doors were open
and upon whose television screens

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