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studies in memory ix: brothers
November 4, 2013
part sweat, part soft leather,
a waft of tobacco and the press
of bodies through layers of wool coats
and suede jackets,
shoulder blades beneath hands as secret salty
tears are dried
on sleeves,
sawdust, green in a broken august and the
dying musk of a forest carpet just before dawn
in early november,
sometimes whiskey and sometimes soap,
and black coffee, always, always black coffee,
the kind of heady love you recognize
the second you smell it
and suddenly the whole world is safe
again for you.
© Zachary P., Brooklyn, NY
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This article has 2 comments.
Gotta love them, even if they're being annoying or just plain stupid. JK. Hahaha. This poem, for me, is very Walt Whitman-esque with the cataloguing of descrptions, which I might add bring life to the poem. I could taste, see, and smell all of these things1the soap, the soft leather, and the coffee. Definitely the coffee. And that feeling of safety gave me a sense of peace at the end. The whole world may not be safe 100% (not even 13%) but family and friends and home is. At least, they promise that sense of safety that no one else does.
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