Two Poems

River Willows

it was summer but the air wove cool and slow,
not so many swallows out there, beyond the estate
with its vineyards and high walls. he was wearing a red scarf
and he carried a walking cane. she was doing most
of the talking, she spoke rapidly and moved her hands
while she talked. a very small farmhorse on the horizon
watched them walking. the air smelled of damp hay
and evening was coming on fast. it was along
the river plain, a lot of jack rabbits out that way
and i love to see them scatter as they go—
that and the dragonflies. i was standing alone
in the young trees when i saw them, you know
the kind i mean, river willows, tall and thin and orderly,
leafed out in money green and the pale bark
which reminds you of a young girl's skin.
lots of trees, crowded together but as i say orderly,
in military fashion. people grow them to make paper from.
you plant some trees, they jump up fast, you cut
them down and bang! you make paper
out of them. then you grow some more trees

Occasional Mudslides in the Rain

new york city in winter i was listening to
everything she was saying because
i respected her and furthermore
she had paid for dinner so i said
why don't you run that one past me
one more time but with a little less feeling
a little less feeling and a lot more
pavement, cracked pavement i said because
we were walking along and i had
cracked pavement on my mind so
she gave it to me again but with a lot more
amplification and a little more reflection
but not much cracked pavement to speak of
so i tried again because i did care about
what she was saying honestly i did care
and the urgency in her hands
and that square little quiver in her voice
so i said why don't you give it to me with
a little more rubber on the road because
anyone who has been lonely in l.a. has
experienced miles and miles of highway
endless sunshine eye-stinging smog
the precipitous canyons and
occasional mudslides in the rain
but now it was going to be
impossible i could tell it was nearly
central park and she hates central park at
night so i said why don't we make like a tree and
why don't we go back to your place and get
high but no she didn't want to go back
to her place and get high and no she didn't want
to make like a tree and she said this is where
the rubber meets the road boy
and she said goodnight she said
good night and she left me
alone at the corner of
east 85th street and fifth avenue
lonely in new york
wondering what it was
i said wrong

George Wallace has been engaged in a conversation with the world for 59 years in his native New York, as well as while in residence in England, Korea, California, North Carolina, and Massachusetts. Author of sixteen chapbooks of poetry in the US, UK and Italy, he is editor of Poetrybay.com and performs his work at the Woody Guthrie Festival, Beat Museum, Rexroth Festival, Howlfest, Insomniacathon, Dylan Thomas Centre and Lowell Celebrates Kerouac.

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