The Maynard
Spring 2015

Thomas Zimmerman

Hotel Lincoln Blues, Chicago

So someone’s bashed in Volvo, Honda, Jeep,
and Buick windows all along the street.
I’m back from breakfast, burping pork and sweet
preserves: not sure what fruit they were. The creep
who sat behind you eyed your ass. It’s mine,
my glance declared. We knew I lied. There is
a devil. Suns his loins, then takes a whiz
in Lincoln Park. He’s not Miltonic. Fine:
that makes him more a schlump, like me each time
I try to write a poem or make a move.
The cops and cabs whoosh by below, you’re on
the phone, your mother’s dying slow, I mime
the act of travel-writing. God, our groove
was back when you were wrapped around me. Now it’s gone.