Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

The River Is Cold on Christmas Day

even if the weather is warm.

Eighteen wheelers shake the bridge,
the water is a corpse.

There’s a woman I haven’t seen
in weeks, there’s a party tonight,
at least that’s what I remember
from last year.

A roasted pig with an apple
shoved in its mouth,
tubs of iced cheap beer,
a pharmacy on the table,
hangover sex in the shaking morning,
tomorrow I will rise alone
to the dying lights.

There’s another woman here,
balancing herself on the railroad tracks
above a ramshackle fire pit
full of crumpled PBR cans,
dug by those Polish Hill crust punks,
over thirty but still in studded leather.

She’ll hold me close tonight
as I shiver and stare at the water–
it’s been so warm I didn’t bring a coat.

I’ll let her tonight,
this being the one day of the year
where charity is always accepted.
Richard L. Gegick is from Trafford, PA. His poems and stories have appeared in Burrow Press Review, Hot Metal Bridge, and Fried Chicken & Coffee. He lives in Pittsburgh where he writes and waits tables.

Categories: Poetry

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