Friday Night Shivoo

Whether he had been awakened in the predawn hours by the distant crowing sounds of a chanticleer
The remnants of drunken gatherers’ voices in the streets exiting their Friday night shivoo,
He was awake now
Alone with his notebook and his pen
Ready to seize upon the phantasmagorical essences of the big old empty house,
Fulminating in him always were the words and ideas and memories and emotion
Ready to explode like the chemicals he used to work with in the lab
Into ink upon a page, art in motion,
Days like this he wished he could stay home in his tobacco-brown study
Doing work as a literary intrapreneur
Funded by the burnings off of tiny savings
Allowing his soul’s essence to express itself on parchment
Taking breaks for coffee or to play with le petit chat gris,
While reading aloud the words on work of Breton, he was
Met with the froideur reactions of his own ajdaN
Like his ungloved hands felt on the grey wintry bark of elders on another early morning on a walk through
Les Jardin du Luxembourg,

These two so far removed so long from simpatico
In their separate tiny dreams
Escaping somnambulistic tendencies

Until (and when) (and then)

The medals of St. Christopher and the Claddagh rings they shared with each other so long ago reminded them
Of promises made to be kept,
Of promises meant to be spent
One with another:
These talismans of truth
They sang
And sang
And sang

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January, 2017

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