poems by owen lucas

Evening lamp lit living room,
plain oval coffee table the white
of shingled New England houses
with coasters again floral, remote
diagonal, left last night that
way when the TV blinked
off. On the white table, guide
book to Italian art gallery,
photo albums big and square
full of thanksgiving and
graduation caps and smiles,
no ringmarks. Hay coloured
rug like giant welcome mat.
Sofas slouch brown thick
and warm, slight wool scratch.
TV, like rug, sofas and
albums, big and square.
Trapezoid lampshade leafy
brown casts that tungsten
filament vanilla glow on
the copper coloured lampstand,
printed out pages of chords,
and Kathleen strumming Bon
Iver, frowning and stopping
then speeding on like a stuck
record. She's wrapped in green
hoodie, concentrated, three
chords, the song sings from
the wood box and she goes,
but stumbles on the F.
Her feet are half peeked
blush pink out of her jeans
and she yawns plucking
at her lids to get a speck,
too tired from the insurance
place, poor baby. Hiccups
up ice cream and caesar
salad, strums on again.