New Orleans Wednesday Morning

At 6 a.m. on a Wednesday, New Orleans is stretching

and waking up slowly, a solitary barge drifting lazily by

on the lazy river as the bloody-egg-yolk sun peeks

out red-eyed and bleary from its cloud-blankets;

the streetcars on Canal stand idling, blinking their eyes,

one finally crawling forward. A few cars cross

on Magazine, a bus sits waiting at the curb,

a garbage truck lumbers down an alley.

In half an hour, one runner, one cyclist,

the first pedestrians venturing out,

haphazardly clothed as if they dressed in the dark.

Now, the sun brightens, and the ripples

on the surface of the water glitter like diamonds,

or, well, rhinestones at least; shadows from

lampposts and palmetto trunks stripe

streets bathed in patches of yellow glow.

A timeless scene, but a cable hanging loosely

outside my 36th-floor room swings in the wind

like the pendulum of a towering clock,

a reminder that the hours keep ticking forward.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

Their Eyes Meet in the Movie Line

The second time, he catches the gaze,

unsurprised since he’s courting attention,

but just anxious enough about the scope

of his success to do a quick side check

to make sure he’s still with his friends.

Wearing an open-sided black T-shirt,

the lip-studded punk in the movie line

shows just enough skin, a flash of ab,

the slightest hint of nipple, to tantalize

his watcher with curiosity about what else

is pierced, about the rest of the tattoos

the trailers of dark ink preview at his

collarbone and waist. He’s a skinny kid

with a mess of hair, not good-looking,

but he exudes that late-adolescent

mash-up of swagger and self-doubt,

that seductive vulnerability, that draws

the observer’s eyes back to him.

There’s a kind of longing in the look,

but the teenager has no need

to worry; it’s not his flesh the adult

desires, but his spirit, the edginess

of invincible youth, when so much

of life is still in future tense rather

than the not-so-perfect past.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

 

Rain Dance

Outside, distant thunder applauds the performance

of  rain dancing on the pavement strewn with magenta vinca blossoms.

In here, the clock, tripped up by a power blip during the night,

flashes a time that is not now, and therefore, by my groggy-headed logic,

this moment is timeless and must be savored,

so I snuggle into my nest of pillows for a Sunday-morning lie-in,

happy that the sheets on now are the soft jersey ones,

glad that I started the dishwasher, its hum-swoosh-and rattle cycle

oddly comforting–domestic, mundane, familiar.

The Radio One presenter starts every sentence with “Basi’ly”

and plays a Sam Smith ballad that’s sad in a good way,

especially when his voice climbs for the trademark high notes

in the bittersweet chorus, and though I’m lying here  inbed,

arms wrapped around nothing but a pillow, I’m lying

to myself, and in the lie, I’m dancing with the rain–

a slow dance, a last dance, but dancing all the same.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Bean Train

The coffee roaster
looks like a locomotive,
the old-school steam kind,
green-sided and silver-stacked;
stationary, off the rails,
it’s time stopped halfway
across the Great Plains,
the Pacific coast
no longer even a dream.
But now it cures the magic beans
that jolt zombies back to life
and fire imaginations,
energy transferred from plant
by machine to hipster kind.

Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper

Carpe Dickem

In the season of procrastination and allergies

I’m lingering over a post-luncheon coffee,

and with nothing else of interest in the offing,

my gaze wanders around at the guys.

Clichés are forthcoming here, no doubt,

but one can be, I think, allowed, along

with photographs of the first daffodils,

pink azalea buds, and random sprouts,

in spring one poetic bout with passing

time, fleeting youth, seizing days, not missing out.

 

Let’s set a scene then, and off we’ll go:

two college boys on a coffee date

at a popular local watering-hole,

one whiter than white, the other mixed race,

both cute, young, bearded, in T-shirts,

and those trendy lightweight short-shorts

that cling like boxers to the interesting parts;

the white one’s been to his stylist

for the haircut du jour, long on top,

buzzed back and sides, hairy legs, and on

his feet, leather high-tops, the other dude,

smoother, sporting white canvas sneaks.

They occupy the corner café table,

sitting, talking, laughing too loud at whispered

jokes; two queer blokes, not really drinking

their mostly decorative cafés-au-lait,

so gay in every sense and so very young!

 

One glance at them, and my thoughts are

flung back to when I was their age

of similar bent but in such different days,

and I wonder how things might have ended

if I’d had that kind of beginning

and hadn’t gone off to college in eighty-one,

when AIDS was new and running rampant.

 

Happy for what they have now right here,

but a bit resentful maybe of past fears

and attitudes that made it hard for me

to take what to them must seem freer.

Not that I haven’t had myself a life,

but finding my path did take a while,

and I missed some chances along the way;

I’m thinking, for example, of Eben at the lake

that day we took a ride after class:

He was clearly fishing and I liked the bait,

but only nibbled when I could have swallowed

hook, line, and sinker as we wallowed

in the grass. We stayed friendly but

of course he never made another pass,

and then, well nothing, except that the memory

has suddenly surfaced these thirty years hence.

 

I’m not the kind to interrupt the chat

of strangers when they’re on a date,

but if by some quirk of fate, I were not

invisible to the eyes of youth and they

were to turn to the old dude and ask

for words of wisdom about love,

and life, and lust and such, I’d say,

if you’re into him, then have a go at it.

Time is ticking and youth won’t last,

so make a move and find your groove–

go ahead and seize the dick.

 

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper