Tuesday, November 29, 2005

William P. Robertson


brucehard y cabman hedonist deluxe
what do his eyes devise
behind his shades
why is his cap pulled
down so low while making change
why is his taxi on the prowl
outside the topless bars
why does he drink his
dr. pepper
out of mason jars
how does he slip through
changing lights
like light through prism walls
why doesn't even his mother
return his calls?


i drive past yr house at night
down the crowded little street
& see yr lighted hall, yr open door
& wonder how it'd be
if i'd park my limousine
proceed upstairs
to open all my dreams
of you & i & sheets wound tight

i drive past yr house at night
with lines prepared & kisses memorized
i drive & drive around yr block
but never in yr life
a life i want to touch & spark
so i may too return to life
instead of driving zombie-like
afraid of my reflection in the dark


mother dear
oh mother dear
i hope you can see
as well as hear
i'll try to keep
my language clean
while describing my
rumble bump trouble machine
the wipers won't wipe
& the horn doesn't work
i kick in the lights
& get lost in the murk
the shocks all squeak
& the hood goes clump
driving my *#@% rumble bump
yes the shocks all squeak
the gas tank
& leaves a trail
down the street
yes this time
i got myself up a stump
driving my *#@% rumble bump
i need all the cash
that you can send
for my brakes
go through
more +#@$ shoes
than a well-fed family
of ten
a nice passing motorist
tried giving me a jump
& the shocks went squeak
& the hood went clump
but the rumble didn't rumple
& the bump didn't bump
so please mother dear
i hate to annoy
but there's not much
to do
in central illinois
so send me some cash
some negotiable green
& i'll rumble bump
in my trouble machine

William P. Robertson is a freelance writer from Duke Center, PA in the
United States. These poems are from his latest poetry collection,
GHOSTS OF A BROKEN HEART from Infinity Publishing.

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