TAKE ME HOME

A first scent
of a rose petal's blush
on warm flesh
when ill;
the blood splatter
from love positioned
around the dinner table;
french toast nursed
by arthritic fingers
puffed with butter & cinammon;
fears running up & down
the broken vertebrea
of a family's spine;
nerves scattering
like mice
caught in a cat's eye;
a belly laugh
at our own imbecilities;
a warmth girding
all our failures;
and safety,
yes safety,
safety as each of us
walked a netless
wire.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

MY KIND OF WOMAN

A young mother
holding colored balloons
in one hand
& two skateboards
with the other,
came out of her apartment building
with two screaming toddlers
tugging on her shorts. It was hot
here in NYC.
And she was quite upset.
One blond haired daughter
grabbed a board
from a fist
& skated away: "wee wee wee."
The other,
the more petulant
& whiny
& pretty
of the two,
pouted, & didn't want
to go nowhere
except back up
into her mother's arms.
NO, her mother said.
SCREAMS issued forth.
NO, she said again.
The little darling
stamped her little foot.
Do what you want,
the mother spat.
The kid kept tugging
& wrapped herself
around mom's thighs.
Follow your sister,
mom exhorted.
The pretty, blond haired, colored ribboned curled coiffed kid
began slapping
at any part of mom's torso she could get to.

I lit a cigarette.
Lovely,
I said
to myself.
I'll probably
be dating her in twenty years--
maybe sooner.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

BOUNCED AROUND

You don't know
what you're getting
into: an icebox
or cauldron.
You don't know
how the cord
you've come from
tightens
once it's
cut.
How unfortunate
not to have skins
like the rhino
or the freedom
of a fish.
Instead,
we're at the mercy,
(for such
an ungodly time),
of lunatics
who've been mothered
by other lunatics.
They're drunk
or broke or
broken or
both; they scream
& curse
& fondle
their charges.
They abandon
or ignore
or shame
because
they can.
And those
are the lucky ones.
They haven't been
bounced against walls,
or tied to their beds
for days or weeks.
They haven't been
pissed on
or touched
or fondled
or fucked.
But none
are really
lucky.
Early on
they believe
the truth
of the lie:
their fault
for the fights
or the coldness
or the ravings
of drunks; their fault
the world tilts
& slides
& slips
underneath
them.

I never really wanted kids;
I always knew
I was too fucked-up
in all the ways
that matter
to them; consistency
for one. I'm no hero.
Today I saw a few
newly minted diabetics:
nine and fourteen.
No family,
but too much family:
drunk and addled
and miffed that a
disease demanded more attention
than they did.
The kids were quiet,
but inside, their bodies
churned: their eyes
sensitive, ears receptive
to every and any
jungle sound. They will
have to develop
a better nose
for deceit
& truth
if they are to survive. And that
could take
a lifetime.

Coming home
the train
was empty
considering
the hour; perhaps
the rain and wind
kept the animals
in their cages.
I sat alone
in a corner
and let the underground
rock me. It felt good.
I'd been through
what those kids
were going through
now: the diabetes,
the blame,
the shame,
the wanting to fix
the unfixable. They will,
I knew, waste
a lot of time.
I didn't want
to get off the train
and passed my stop.
I'd eat out tonight.
And then write,
what turned out,
to be this poem.
Not very good,
I admit,
but I really
don't give
a fuck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015