Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer Poem by Jack Gilbert
Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer
I'd walk her home after work
buying roses and talking of Bechsteins.
She was full of soul.
Her small room was gorged with heat
and there were no windows.
She'd take off everything
but her pants
and take the pins from her hair
throwing them on the floor
with a great noise.
Like Crete.
We wouldn't make love.
She'd get on the bed
with those nipples
and we'd lie
sweating
and talking of my best friend.
They were in love.
When I got quiet
she'd put on usually Debussy
and
leaning down to the small ribs
bite me.
Hard.
Anonymous submission.
Sounds like a dull hot sweaty day alone in a room with someone else. I think I would rather be elsewhere by myself with someone still breathing... I can do this style of inverting sub-titling poetry too! I'd rate this poem but guess what?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 1:53:03 PM # 1.0.0.1119
My, my, my- -It is really tiresome that I and perhaps you cannot rate poems anymore because some messed up computer thingee can only respond to a vote by demanding we sign in again and again and again. Really getting tiresome. Neither can I track down the comments that notifications to my e-mail tell me about.