“November 22, 1963,” from NOVEMBER: A Poem in 30 Days

11 22 63

November 22, 1963

 

I kick through piles
   of parchment, broad sheets
      fallen on parking lot gravel
   at the Pioneer Valley

Diner. The heavy sycamore
    towers
           over breakfast
       inside

the truckers wait for the news
    I carry at ten cents a ream.

It's 6:15
     the morning of
   our president is dead.

More sycamore and birch leaves
   powder the banks as the
       Connecticut

presses southward
    behind the diner
          toward Springfield.

 

lbj

excerpted from
NOVEMBER: A Poem in 30 Days
in memory of the last month of life of Lester C Coe (1925-1978)

About orangeacorn

We are, I believe, and everything is, in perpetual unfolding/enfolding/evolving. By surface appearances, we're in turmoil and fearfullness, but in fact our existence is on the edge of a new way, beyond the US versus THEM we have grown with. I encourage you to join me over coffee or tea in face-to-face encounters. I call this exercise, "CAFFEINE COMMUNION: Encounters with Paradigm Pioneers." I'm a Columbus, Ohio husband, father and citizen. I practice string band sounds from the ridges of Pocahontas County, West Virginia, the vortex of the ancient drone.
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