Notes from Underground

Notes from Underground

Dusty you start off miserable.

I am guessing that you will not change?

I will try to read you anyway

so long as I am trapped

on this grumbling train.

But as refreshment from

the crumbling acid-eaten words you wrought

I will, at periodic intervals

reflect upon the book mark found

in this ancient paperback I bought.

It is a post card-there is no date

or stamp or writing on the back.

As fragile and flaky as the book

within whose intestine it has hid

for decades from the sun and stars.

On the obverse a photograph

of a Palisade Park, New Jersey bar,

John Lullmann, proprietor.

A low beamed ceiling

and well stocked shelves

the bar-keep gives a lovely lady a light-

all the warmth and charm

one might like-and need-to beat

back the demons of the Russian night.

Martinis and bourbon,

J & B and rum,

warm wood finishes

and leather stools, Feodor,

to have rested your bum.

couldn’t all of you desperate writers-

you Petersburg poets-

have possibly found

a similar venue

to pen your Notes From Underground?

or replaced it all

with a good conversation

and drink from the menu?

Feodor you are miserable

but you might have been fine

if you’d not written even a word,

given the lady a light,

and bought her some wine.