The Number Is 4. Poem by RIC BASTASA

The tiny capillaries of the gumamela
I see. I like to open my palms
Somewhere in snowy Vienna.
Nordic walks

On this month of the year.
No coffee. Just green tea.
Just lasagna and pasta.
No rice. Red tomatoes.

Strictly English, but my little german will
make a little fun. Danke
schon. Yes, gratitude counts wherever
we go.

I do not wish to waste myself away.
I must travel now, or if I don’t
I may not find a glimpse
Of eternity.I like to call a friend
In Calgary and crack a joke and stomp
My feet and make the hardest laugh.
She must hear it.
Soonest.I don’t like
To tell her, I don’t read in my room.
I don’t eat much either. I don’t pray.
I left my rosary in Sto. Rosario.
A child must have found it, there
Is no sign that it shall be returned.

Got tired finally of listening to
A young priest’s sermon. He needs a new
Haircut.Or perhaps a boyfriend.
Could be a sugar mama.

I recall the names of women
I make up in bed before I sleep.
There are so many. So untrue. But
There is one name she knows. I like
Her buried there. In her conclusions.
In this memory, tears fall inward
Like a movie played in reverse.

I don’t really like life.
But I still breathe air, like
A hungry man
Grabbing with all hands
Pizza and iced tea. Not minding
Young girls on the other side
Of his table. The number is 4.