Today's poem is by Ariel Francisco
Before Snowfall
French has no word for home.
Jack Gilbert
I found Baudelaire on a street corner
near Washington Square Park for two dollars
on a flimsy table littered with orphaned books:a faded, cracked paperback, lavender
as the lingering winter evening that draped
the skyline like a dust jacket, and small enoughto squeeze into a standard sized envelope,
which I did, after scribbling a little note
on the inside cover to a girl back home.She never got the book, which was in French,
and we never spoke again in any language,
though I always wondered what happenedto the book, probably lost in the dead letter office,
that mass grave of undelivered letters,
moldy packages, and illegible birthday cards.Still, when winter arrives every year like a janitor
to sweep the fallen leaves, and I'm reminded
of what is lost, I like to imaginea homeless man fishing my envelope
out of that dropbox on Broadway
before the mailman gets to it,digging for Christmas cards from grandma
stuffed with cash for her favorite grandkid,
and instead finding Baudelaire.He clutches the book with ungloved hands
slumping down against the dropbox
in resignation, and flips it opento my little note, which simply says
tell me, is the snow coming down
on you too? And I imagine him looking up,his gaze tracing the skyline until it reaches
the grey horizon, thinking of all the nowheres
to go to lay his head down tonight,saying out loud:
Not yet my friend. Thank goodness,
not yet.
Tweet
Copyright © 2017 Ariel Francisco All rights reserved
from All My Heroes Are Broke
C&R Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Home
Archives
Web Weekly Features
About Verse Daily
FAQs
Submit to Verse Daily
Copyright © 2002-2017 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved