Poem of the Week 5/2/2017
Target, Starbucks and Three Madeleines
Into my misto, I dip a madeleine
and taste vanilla and coffee,
a hint of lemon,
wet on my tongue,
and I remember — what?
That madeleines are fattening?
That my car needs service?
That it’s tax time?
I dip again
and Kenneth Noland’s target paintings
spin into view,
some with a bull’s-eye pulsing red,
some an empty space, most
like an alien’s pupil,
and I circle back to his Soho loft
rocking a wall of sound with Karen and Ahmet,
and Ken, taking my hand,
and placing a pre-Columbian effigy
in my palm,
when I used to imagine
would visit my sphere.
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