Friday, September 07, 2012

NEW! Poem by Peter Shippy

Peter Shippy


As the cellist played a gigue, Bach, 
at Virgil’s, a cantina on Salem Street

known for their garlic martinis, 
I overheard a man say to a woman: 

we’ll be flying to London to see Queen 
at Wembley, without Freddie Mercury, 

once again. And that’s how I knew 
how I knew it was spring, how I knew

it was time to wax my barque, my balls, 
wipe the dew off my cheval mirror

to reckon who’s the prettiest of all, 
and beckon the huntsman’s long knife.

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