Marcus Ten Low: ‘to a girl staring into a shop window’, ‘brusque man at the piano’ and ‘vertigo at the dentist’

to a girl staring into a shop window

as i pass between you and the window
i notice the little things—

your eyelashes, the tilt of your hat,
knots in your hair,

and most of all the glaze of your
so pretty eyes.

apologetic i am, until one more,
and many more, pass between you
and me, stopping, looking back at you

plaintive and sad,
fresh like a potplant with an elongated
flower hanging there,

waiting …
and, as it softly rains,
i stare as a bluster picks you up

and rushes you away in life
with a kick of the leaves of your dress—
like nothing else mattered,
like nothing
passed between us,

and never will, again.

Marcus Ten Low

 

brusque man at the piano

watching the fat man
steaming his little allegretto:

two stained puffy-splayed hands
tweaking the teetering of notes,

an uptilt, a slight question,
head angled at me,
an eyebrow raised,

a smile,
and all the while,
the fingering, tinkering tune
still plays

and plays on, in my head—

now listen to his voice, singing,
the maturation of his whiskey breath,

the melancholy, the glimmer
of hope in the din

of light on this bar piano,
swimmingly played:

making us who and what we are.

Marcus Ten Low

 

vertigo at the dentist

on the contraption of a chair,
i’m made to lie upside down,
and then i’m turned inside out,
with my mouth wide as wide,
like a shark.

delicate probes turn into
a bit of push and shove,
but i cannot, must not, move.
a light shines from above,
as screens flicker silently.

these two or three blithe ladies
stare down at me, numbed of sense,
their intents lingering,
teasing-out bits and pieces
for strength and weaknesses—

the torment has not yet begun,
but already i am highly strung,
caught between a chair and a hard place.
and yet the pretty girls fussing
about me, flossing my inbetweens

like a fiddle, detailing my offwhites
in figures, or talking me
into their prescribed treatment,
prim in their uniforms,
fret like unopened sweets …

Marcus Ten Low