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Two Poems by David W. Kriebel


Vivaldi, The Four Seasons

I drive, listening to

Vivaldi, The Four Seasons

in the Baltimore summer night

I listen as the music builds

and watch the faces of too many people

crossing the street and waiting by bus stops.

I sit in traffic, stuck, one of

the great white chain of headlights

seen to be beautiful by watchers high

in a great, green, glassy gallery.

Cars butt in, a young girl

gets called a bitch

for letting me in, also, and I think,

this is now compassion is rewarded,

when one human commits the unspeakable crime

of seeing another as human, too.

Cars butt in, she is gone while I think,

to be replaced by other faces,

proper blank ones

strolling, lolling, rolling

in Baltimore's summer night

while I sit safe behind glass

but close to the danger and

listen to the sounds of

The Four Seasons.

banana peel

"your future starts here,"

said the sign over the pedestrian

lately crossing lombard street

now lying flat on hot asphalt

patching the metal-plated road

car brakes screech, blue lights come

unreal, unreal, a dream

what was I thinking of?

oh, yes, a poem,

a poem needed writing,

a wrong needed righting,

a cosmic cause filled my head,

reminding me how noble I am,

above the common riff-raff

crossing the street in dark clothing

and interrupting my Muse.

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