Robert M. Simmons
from Morning in Middleborough... (Poems 1991-2006)
Adonis on Everett Square
A panhandler with agile feet
quickly deserts the busy street,
while teens with strollers stop to gaze
at sights not seen on normal days,
and from his lofty point of view
Titian beholds this drama too,
for at this tryst of time and space
something profound will soon take place.
We know when glancing o’er the top
of yon café and barber shop,
beyond the fortune teller’s lair,
toward the aether rising there,
watching great cloud formations fly,
their grays and golds billowing high
before heavenly shades of blue,
with shafts of sunlight shining through,
while Cupid wisely waits aloof
upon the pawn shop’s shingled roof,
near a chariot poised for flight,
drawn by six swans with feathers white,
not since the Renaissance was here
have we seen such wonders appear!
From his quaint vinyl clad abode
we spot a lad in exit mode,
who must be noted in detail
lest our faint recollections fail.
While golden locks his head adorn,
colored and curled this very morn,
the diamond on his lobe prepares
his image for adoring stares.
Between his lips a cigarette
helps him to cope with any threat,
and chains around his neck convey
his readiness to face the day,
as tattoos on his chest and arms
contribute to his manly charms.
A maiden follows close behind
with passions of a Latin kind.
She begs him not to leave her side,
but he insists upon a ride.
His Kawasaki has a lure
that all her warnings can not cure.
He mounts and starts his steel steed,
as she continues still to plead.
Then like a rocket spaceward bound,
leaving all caution on the ground,
he hastens off with flames and smoke
to the delight of common folk,
but not the one he leaves behind
who knows that fate can be unkind.
She pulls her hair in futile rage,
then exits from the mortal stage.
Her chariot is seen to soar
high above the convenience store.
That awful sound that rubber makes
when man applies his auto brakes
is heard by all assembled there
to marvel at this youthful pair.
As for our lad, your guess is right;
it happened at the traffic light.
No point in adding more detail;
as always let good taste prevail.
Above the ruckus Titian toils
painting the scene, of course in oils,
to grace a wall in Paris France
or some other city, perchance.
When chaos clears on Everett Square,
as onlookers migrate elsewhere,
and sirens now to silence fade,
the panhandler resumes his trade.
© 2003 by Robert M. Simmons
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Subjects: small town life, Venus and Adonis, Titian, mythology, poetry, poems