Robinson Talks Girls

Robinson talks girls with Spangler Arlington Brugh,
Greek onomatopoeia bouncing on his fingertips,
a sofa’s ego staining a corner of the room.

The curves a woman possesses
on the streets, on escalators,
in elevators, bending over,

in the act of love,
these curves become shadows
on the bridges of New York City.

The taxis fornicate yellow,
no Arab at the helm.
The elevated train terrain

suddenly sinks underground
and Robinson grabs his umbrella
against the sun and rain.

He grabs his typewriter by the ears
and holds it up in the borough air.
Wood in the nearby hills protested,

but Robinson went about his business.
His pocket watch keeping time
with the coal black eyes of tomorrow’s dust.