What Would Billy Collins Say
while sitting in my easy chair feeling deliciously omnipotent
as the teapot howls through the wide-eyed windows looking
out to the humanly unfelt decibels while the awakened street
cats breathe the steamy jasmine prowling their territory?
Depending on the decadence of the decade perhaps he’d
light a cigarette or candle, astute to the rising swirl of heat
making its way like a corkscrew through the complicit air
as if it was an old lover mustering mojo in the after hours.
I imagine Billy would recline with my soon to be favorite
chipped cup of the American wild west, lift the sundown,
sip the last rain and after it fell from his armchair, he’d
smile, say don’t hurry and then we’d watch for a moment
as the broken-hearted cup’s desert flowers creep into bloom.
Garth Pavell's poetry was recently published in American Diversity Report, Crab Creek Review, Hole In The Head Review, Liquid Imagination and Stone Poetry Journal. Perhaps even more impressive is the fact that he can leisurely hold his breath for over three minutes. Garth writes in the night of New York City.