Dave Bacharach
half rain half ice
is another form
of treachery—
suddenly on my back
I gaze at crystal trees
no matter
if the sun one day
burns out—
my white hot anger
will last beyond the grave
fistfight over
we become good friends—
the intimacy
of breaking his nose
he scarring my face
this lonely path
leads through the woods
to the homeless
one day I'll stroll in
with brandy and cigars
iridescent
a dragonfly perches
upon a green leaf
fluttering in the wind
on her dyed silk scarf
what she says
is important enough
to listen
but all I think of
is her red lipstick
her lies
are like wet clothes
I peel off
piece by piece
to be left shivering
her breasts bounce
as she crosses against
a red light
a girl so young
I drag my eyes away
Dave Bacharach grew up in the streets and alleys of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
He worked his way through college doing manual labor and driving a taxi. After
attending graduate school, he taught briefly at Philadelphia Community College
before relocating to the rural hillsides surrounding Ithaca, New York. He now
manages a large bus garage by day, and writes poetry and practices the saxophone
by night. His poetry and reviews have appeared in many of the major journals, and
he is the editor of Ribbons, published by the Tanka Society of America.
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