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Guest Poet Victoria D'Ottavio

A Seaport Among the Village

Hearing the lyric over and over in my head,
row, row, row your boat, gently...
Why does it do that?
Stuck in a barrel with no monkeys
ever since I could recall a blue wall
with psychedelic daisies.
In that seaport where now only immigrants
of tomorrow's tractor beam resides
turns my mind off to thoughts
and opens them up to monotheistic churches.
I remember the smell of lemon oil
rubbed by elderly wise woman
with handkerchief strides.
A pastoral bow awaits freshly pressed linens,
crisp and draped on the altar,
genuflect and retract a blue haired widow.
Back to Main Street with street lamps
echoing the luncheonette jabber
of wasted tuna melts.
Why do they taste like wet tarps?
Where rain once settled,
puddled waves fill the Sound
along the Yacht Club's gameroom.
Overlooking a pier past the mansions
resides the nothingness of everything,
Grandpa's place to hang a hat.
While guitar and song promote the alcoholic cast,
"Fresh Fish!" Here Rosie, clean the scales,
freeze it with patient reluctance--
servants and chefs of the Fox's Lane.
No remorse in the seaport of captains
and ethnic values--
merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

June, 2001

Victoria D'Ottavio's Questions:

Does this poem flow and give insight to what is happening?

I haven't played with this one too much, left it at its first draft.

All comments are welcome.

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