Marc Swan’s poems have recently been published in Big Muddy, Passager, Crannóg, Gargoyle, Toad Suck Review, Coal City Review, among others. He lives with his wife Dd in Portland Maine.
I try to imagine the queen-size waterbed
the slight bounce when you got in
the slosh if the water got low
the cat trying to ride a wave only she could see
and when the visitor from New York
knocked at the door
after a few glasses of wine
a lingering joint
conversation of here and there
she rolled easily
onto the bed
jeans and tee shirt shed
her body flowed with the flow of the water
in slow moving eddies
over the thick wooden frame
she was young and frolicsome
ready for whatever the evening became
it was a time of chance and whimsy
a time for dance
music flowed around the room
onto the window sills
to the door
suddenly open to the light of dawn
that did come each day
with the sweet smell
of limes, lemons, tangerines
the women changed
the weather didn’t
the music changed
the waterbed stayed the same
one decade to the next
to that time when it no longer remained
She’s a Fourth of July firecracker,
a dozen ears of corn
roasting on a winter fire,
a legacy in her own mind.
She thinks she’s a great writer.
She believes the world waits expectantly
for her book,
this one and the next and the next.
She startles herself with expectation.
She is driven by all that should lie ahead
unbounded by the dictates of society—
an original wild thing.
Look out world here she comes!
And for me
her biggest fan
these past twenty-eight years,
she’s a bottle rocket waiting to explode
into the wild willful night.