Philosophically inspired

A couple of poems, take them or leave them. The first is part of a series inspired by reading great books (or writers) in common places. Hence some rather unusual titles (“Shakespeare at the Waffle House,” “Neitzche at the Mall,” etc.) And this one.

ARISTOTLE AT THE Y

The greatest thing,
I read,
is to be master
of metaphor,
pumping my
elliptical machine.
Looking up
I see
a woman,
thighs bulging,
struggling on a
stairclimber.

The following is not of the same series, but is what I imagine it might have looked like had Rene Descartes scribbled down a love poem. Haphazardly. In English. In the present day.

DESCARTES IN LOVE

You weren’t here.
You never tugged at my shirt
when it was time to go to bed.
There was no smell of coffee
at night when I liked to arrange
my doubts while watching you
turn the pages of a magazine.
I could have sworn I used to wake
in the night and look for
your shoulder in the dark bed,
confirming it with a kiss.
I must have been mistaken.

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