by Darren Colbourne
It’s an early Park Avenue morning
Built on bad tidings and Soviet missiles;
I watch her buy a newspaper and a coffee from
A corner stand.
The paper opens like the unfurled flag
Of a nation no one loves, but which still rules the world,
To spill its blood and ink across her lap.
She’ll take it back to her penthouse
And stare blindly towards Lexington,
Watching the sun rise in the east
Where far across the sea a broken dove falls in fire,
Two hundred and ninety-eight feathers
Plucked for a politician’s cap.
I wonder if she sees this,
From the window with its shades still half drawn.
I see it as if through her eyes:
The paper creased but still unread,
In sorrowful, silent company,
Amongst the dust-covered copies of Rousseau and Gandhi
That sit on the shelf overhead,
In leather bindings
To prevent them from crying out.
I see this
And so I wrote it down to show her
Should we ever meet again,
But now I read it and
I don’t think it makes all that much sense.
What this morning has?