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Three poems by Colin James


The car was a Volkswagen bug

painted almost joyfully florescent.

Yellows and greens,

peace moniker still in tact.

Understated we watched

as it weaved in and out

of the competitive traffic.

The driver was a youngish lady

in straw bonnet or ironblonde hair

smoking her Acapulco Gold.

It wafted through an open window.

As soon as the phony iconic columns

of the progressive Greek restaurant

appeared like a timely mirage,

she exited darting up the small hill.

Like Irish mirrors, like an aggrandizement.

Torpor Is A Condition I Especially Dislike

We left the penthouse

by the rear entrance

because the usual crowd

had gathered in the foyer.

An alley beckoned so

we took that short cut,

reappearing on the Avenue Montaigne.

There you spent too much money

on a white leather handbag

that alluded to your sensibilities.

Walk suddenly swaying,

eyes in worldly syntax.

Getting out like this

was the right thing to do.

Curriculum Of The Discontinued

I sweep the sand up

but there it is again.

I guess I didn't take

the wind into account

or even conjectured,

just focused on

those little specks.

I remember you

were wearing

too much jewelry.

Garish gold earrings

still elegant somehow

and less than expected.

Chose the straightest

path leading away.


Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski's Porch Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press.

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