Portrait of Emily
She sits in the bedroom window like curtains,
whitely gazing down at the garden,
a row of pink hollyhocks
standing with a lean, listening, like people,
to her secrets. They promise not to tell.
Cobwebs in the corner of the room
catch the dust and residue of the world
before they swallow her, leaving clarity
to shine behind her eyes onto the parchment.
Tall flowers, what do you know
that the Belle of Amherst saw from her window?
What do you know about her secrets,
the ones never penned?
To tell one thing and know another,
entirely one’s prerogative.
Frank Babcock lives in Corvallis, Oregon and is a retired Albany middle school teacher and owner of a bamboo nursery. He writes poetry to share the strange thoughts that rattle around in his head and to get them off his mind. He started with an interest in the beatnik poets, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. He has a long way to go and much to write before he sleeps. Poems published in the local Advocate, Willawaw Journal, and Panoplyzine.
