William Talcott is the well-known San Francisco poet and writer who used to be available at thumbscrew@aol.com (but doesn't seem to still be there). Which is the reason I'm extracting these from a larger suite of pieces more-or-less without his permission.



Juncos

I thirst and the water
roars like evening traffic.
Two juncos, maybe the ones
we saw together, remember?
White tail feathers either side.
The hooded head.
They play like children
near Sweeney's defunct obseratory.
Now I'm facing west.
The noise is really evening traffic.
Engines your husband fixed perhaps.
I need a little bleakness now.
The fog obliges.



Hawks in the Fog


Stone bridge,
"Erected 1893" and solid
surviving all disasters.
Pausing here to look
for hawks in the fog.
I said we'd do that.
I said we might not find any
but we'd find something
if we looked.



The Playground


we took Vincent to and later
a squirrel scratched your hand.
Not deserted as I thought.
No children,
A couple on a blanket
by the grass.
They kiss and gaze.
Then I see two cars.
They have to meet somewhere
I suppose
but it's getting dark
and cold.



Tamarindo


for my thirst
at that coffee house
we went to once.
Another time we shared it
at Bianco's or tried to
between kisses.
I felt light headed
as though a barber
from another time had bled me
to cure my madness.
Your mouth, its moisture
became the waterfall
that greets the first
wild ducks of fall.




Autumn Feelings


When yesterday's snow reaches Utah
I know it's today already.

Clouds smile at that. The air
brightens with an autumn feeling.

A fine day for touching
the person you wake up with.

Today we ate sea urchins raw at lunch
and kissed near the vault of a bank.

I was born over a bank. You
were born far away. Your nipples

are larger than mine which only
makes me want to make them

bigger with those little
love bites you taught me.




Vincent

Your son enters
covered with goop.
Earlier a nosebleed
that won't stop.
You bathe with him.

William, I waited
so long to see you.
When he saw me
after Hawaii.
Yaffa asks me
he's the son
I never had.

He crawled on me
first time we met.
I was working.
The spirit he has
is yours.





Butter on a Cat's Paw


She's reluctant to open
so I give her these poems
and ask for help
with the rewrites.
She helps.

When we got a new cat
my mom put butter on its paw.
Nervous, she said, with the new
surroundings. By the time
she licks her paw clean
she'll be used to it all.

By week's end I'm stealing
prize roses from the park.
Each bud
opens in her vase.



Crossing the Line


When I saw your name
I came by to see who you were.
Who would have a name like Benita.
You wondered what I was up to
when I could have used the phone.

Our work threw us together.
We had coffee in the usual places
and spoke of neutral things.
On the second floor of Boudin's
Bakery I touched your finger
to find out who we were.

It was really myself I was seeking.
You were a voice speaking of children
now and to come, but not mine.
Not everyone falls in love
and not with just anyone.

I read my poems at a coffeehouse.
My invitation to you included
a husband or a friend. You came alone.

The air thickened with applause
and I said let's go and we went
to the first doorway
to taste our first lips.

We walked that way to your car
and I said "Oh God"
and I meant it.




Finding You


We had just made love
and were going to meet
Michael and his friend.
My wet hair might look odd
if we arrived together
so I lagged at your request.

I couldn't find you
at the party when the new
museum opened and we
got separated. I never
thought to call your beeper.

Cars pass by in traffic.
You might be in one.
No, you're at work but I
look for you anyway.

I stared from the second
story landing at the faces
coming in the door
until I saw kalaidoscopes.

A air molecule inside a rainbow.
A drop of rain fallen in the Bay.
How could I find those?

Yet often I find you
where you are not.
Your height and profile.
Your cut of hair.
I see you and I turn
only to feel a miss
in the heart's engine.


Dessert


Once again I have dessert
before the main meal

caffe affogato in North Beach
so sweet and strong and later

I'll be wide awake but not
as sweet as you before lunch

and no, since you asked, I didn't
taste a trace of the medicine

you're taking for being positive
on your TB patch test.



Eating Salad With My Fingers


Sometimes I think you're awful.
Does that mean I'm a person
in love with awfulness?

Your little finger is very short
which means you communicate poorly.
I read that in a book.

You love making love with me, it's
something we do to say yes to each other.
Your voice said that on my voicemail.

Our office romance is over
because I am no longer employed.
Where is our offsite backup tape?

---

---

back to authors list