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Ephraim Scott Sommers

TO MYSELF AS A STATUE IN CENTRAL PARK

That cigarette smokes you down,
And you guzzle the man
Who perches at the lip of the tunnel

And unzips the air with his trumpet.
Then, the men with jackhammers appear
In coveralls, funeral-black, with dollies, paramedic-red.

You hope the coming night might blur your sex.
You watch the wooden teeth of the slave ship
Gnaw on your ankle and wrist. You watch

The procession—the straining eighteen-wheelers.
The boxed-up crane unfolds her arm
Into the evening, the construction sirens

Panting orange. Bob Dylan mumbles
From a parked car of the death
Of your father. The wrecking ball approaches.

–from Rattle #36, Winter 2011

§ 2 Responses to “To Myself As a Statue in Central Park” by Ephraim Scott Sommers

• michael west says:

  August 22, 2012 at 8:23 am

  Dear Rattle,
  I don’t know what I expected when I signed up for these daily poems, but I have been surprised, no shocked, at how freaking wonderful the poems have been. You da bomb. Thank you for being what you are. I can’t wait to see what you will have for me tomorrow.

  Reply
  • Timothy Green says:

    August 22, 2012 at 12:38 pm

    Thanks, Michael, that’s great to hear!

    Reply