Last updated on November 5th, 2018 at 08:27 am

Patrick

In my usual cycle of self-destruction
I was blaming myself for the current boy canceling our routine Sunday date
and had a bit too much to drink,
trying to stop my brain from obsessing over whether or not love exists.

I need to thank you here for what you offered when we strolled into your restaurant late last night, as it was more than just beef patties and other assorted Jamaican food.

A red hibiscus flower,
breadfruit,
a smiling child, and
an ocean of impossible blue, caressed by an even more impossible sky.

I smiled to myself, because the emotion in your voice
as you described each image of home

made me believe in love again.

 

by E. Agostini

 

 

May

From my open window, the smell of cut grass takes me back –
And suddenly
I am no longer lying on my bed, 26 years old and dreading going back to my permanently entry-level job tomorrow morning;
I am very young again and in one of those endless summers.

It’s funny how the bad stuff doesn’t make the cut
and isn’t cast into nostalgic memories.

 

by E. Agostini

 

 

happy waiterWaiter

I remember him clearly
as if it were yesterday
that we worked together.
A young man, with an accent.
Standard, nondescript appearance.
He was quiet, respectful,
and constantly being reprimanded by our managers
for putting his hands in his pockets.
He worked hard, carrying out tray after tray of food,
stacking dirty saucers and glasses,
while the rest of us fooled around
and smoked in the bathroom.
I remember him clearly.
Tonight, his memory is with me,
the memory of a quiet and unassuming man.
Perhaps he was a revolutionary in his own country,
or even a poet.
I wanted to title this poem in his honour,
but I can’t remember his name.

by E. Agostini


image 1: archer10 (Dennis) via Compfight cc; image 2: Chevalier Photography (Cerative Commons BY-NC-SA)

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