Poem
Jane Yeh
Happy Hour, New York City
Happy Hour, New York City
Happy Hour, New York City
The maxidress of the afternoon sags like cheap jerseyAs the first margarita is shaken and poured. The heat is
A blanket smothering all thought, is an abominable
Sauna room the size of a city; the steady drip
Of air-conditioning units pools on the sidewalk.
We clink our plastic glasses together, duel with tiny umbrellas.
The cinnamon bun of the conversation
Unspools till all the gossip is gone—Maxine of the office,
Our Lady of Scandals, Fernando of the enormous
Nose. Another round. The strawberry daiquiris
Melt like pink slush in the sunlight’s glare.
In the unfathomable depths of the popcorn bowl
Lie the answers to all life’s questions: what are
We here for? (Cheap drinks). Day drains from the sky
Like the contents of a highball glass. A succession
Of dogs comes out to be walked before dinner.
The traffic stops and goes past, a mechanical river.
A siren goes off in the distance somewhere, like somebody crying.
© 2013, Jane Yeh
Jane Yeh
(United States of America, 1971)
With just two collections, Jane Yeh has established herself in the UK poetry world as an assured, witty, linguistically adept magpie. Taking her subjects from almost anywhere, her poems explore what identity means in a world of appearances. Paintings, robots, animals – even the owl who was chosen to play the owl in the Harry Potter movie – show us facets of ourselves.
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Happy Hour, New York City
The maxidress of the afternoon sags like cheap jerseyAs the first margarita is shaken and poured. The heat is
A blanket smothering all thought, is an abominable
Sauna room the size of a city; the steady drip
Of air-conditioning units pools on the sidewalk.
We clink our plastic glasses together, duel with tiny umbrellas.
The cinnamon bun of the conversation
Unspools till all the gossip is gone—Maxine of the office,
Our Lady of Scandals, Fernando of the enormous
Nose. Another round. The strawberry daiquiris
Melt like pink slush in the sunlight’s glare.
In the unfathomable depths of the popcorn bowl
Lie the answers to all life’s questions: what are
We here for? (Cheap drinks). Day drains from the sky
Like the contents of a highball glass. A succession
Of dogs comes out to be walked before dinner.
The traffic stops and goes past, a mechanical river.
A siren goes off in the distance somewhere, like somebody crying.
Happy Hour, New York City
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