SARAH M. ZANG

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The Poetry Of...
Sarah M. Zang........................................................

Under the Influence of Anesthesia

History hides in the mist
at my window.
Rising to meet it,
I'm trailing a shell
I would shed.
Time
is caught in a crooked frame.

Finally,
I can admit that Bob Hope
was not all that funny,
and John Wayne
is only a name,
not even a real one.
Somehow that's almost profane.

In the comfortable haze
my reflection is muted
by the mist.
Slowly,
without my consent,
it wins.
I don't know who I am.

Trout Almondine at a Five Star Hotel

So wired he swept the sidewalks
as he struggled against signs of self-repression,
.. he avoided large gatherings
or any form of public transportation.
Who can resist a five star hotel-
.. even if the fish are gone from the cement pond?

The service could have been better,
and probably would have if he'd removed
that black leather jacket
with the Cossacks insignia on the back of it.
Because he insisted on wearing it, he experienced
the hotel with most of the five stars gone.

Still he walked with a swagger,
hardly blinking at all
when he saw two men in the elevator
(business suits and badges)
exchanging passionate kisses.
All the detainees wore bruises.
He was besieged with the ravages of paranoia.
.. wished he'd never watched Rocky and Bullwinkle..
.. worried that they knew he lusted after Natashia.
Did they know the hat was too small? Still, it was a good gift, If only he'd thought to tell them
he hated almonds on his fish.

To Burnt Candles

When candles run to melted wax,
Their flame from hot to out,
Seems there should be at least
Some sorrow for the gone scent,
Some tears for the remembering,
At least some lesson
Learned from the extinguished flame,
But when bright turns dark
Like day receding into night,
Who pauses
To remember yesterday's burnt candles
Or sigh a sad goodbye for their lost light?

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