Poem/ Not Andy Warhol

 

Between the world of work
and a silk stocking of rain that quivers
against a house’s face, I stand
on a bridge for its own sake.
The vibrant green of rain-soaked trees,
the million sparkling water seeds,
have the feel of a Japanese film set.
My co-star forgot our meeting.
Watching the river, thoughts grow stiller
until a silent space opens
into which are tipped the cargo
caught by memory’s hooks:
bric-a-brac, old friendships,
the found objects of a lifetime.
They say these things, these lost
loved ones, are fuel for creative minds.
But I’m not Andy Warhol
and I can’t make art out of this.
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