Jeffrey Bean
CHRONIC
The pain like a mouth on my neck.
Deep blue, a little purple, in the gut
and at the side, like a false left arm
made of rust, like a white bird above
a gem-green sea. The pain like a tall,
glass pitcher of ice, a cold piece
of fruit stuck in the teeth. The pain
like a pine wreath, coiled and fragrant.
Like an old man leaning on a porch rail,
shading his eyes, not moving toward his rake.
The pain like a lake. A loon out of earshot.
A hand that grips and grips, a long night
of snowfall plugging roads, snuffing
windows, piano music on an old,
yellow radio, the same two notes
over and over. And me at the window
watching headlights through icicles,
memorizing the gleam.