by Bill Yarrow
As he gets into the oil-soaked tub,
he recognizes the Jupiter Symphony
playing on the floor below.
Any minute now, the waiter will
bring him his lobster omelet.
After breakfast, he dresses and heads
for the blackjack tables. When he
wins a million dollars, he will stop.
He remembers his mother's dead body,
the reunion strippers at the funeral.
Carrying a mimosa in a fluted glass,
he fights his way through the lobby
packed with firefighters from Marietta.
His mind is full of anchors and Bar Harbor.
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This poem appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review.
Thank you, Irene Koronas.
This poem appears in my chapbook Fourteen (Naked Mannekin, 2011).
This poem also appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Pres 2015).
I love how this is packed full of images and sensory details. So much packed into so few words. *
So this is how the creative other half lives. (I also stop when I win a million dollars). *
Multilayered*
Yes, I agree. It's like a gun with 7 or 8 triggers.
great.
Good poem, Bill.
I like how this slips through his mind. Love the "firefighters from Marietta."*
Fave. Yes, Bill.
Every detail perfect. *
Great. OMG. Geographical difference plays out in international casino parlance.
Lines that arrest me:
lobster omelet
the reunion strippers at the funeral
from Bar Harbor *
"Carrying a mimosa in a fluted glass,...."
Wowsh. Sez so much.
Bravo.
Oops. Forgot a fav. Fav.
The readers' remarks are as lyrical and poetic as this piece, which is wonderful! *
There's something in every bite, Bill. Knockout.
* fav
Oh, wonderful. *
Wonderful, both chock full and airy, leaving room to inhale and breathe.
love the atmosphere here especially. kind of death in venice (mimosa in hand)
Another in a long line of great Yarrow poems. *
Christ this is good.****
a lobster omelet. mmm mmmm