Near the Algonquin
 
Frida sips her slivovitz in a booth with others,
back of her arm cool against red leather,
and they bring her a cluster of candles
and ask her to choose between the color
of melon rind and north Sonoran cactus.

         When you watch propellers churn up
         harbor waters, there at the edge of the channel,
         weed gets cut and floats unnoticed until
         it lodges at some piling.  That green.

A listener downs a mint liqueur
similar in hue to the emerald in a surgeon’s eye.
 

Copyright 1998, Mark Newman
 
Mark Newman writes and publishes his sometimes darkly satirical work from the West Coast.  He is a founding member of the Seattle group, Live Poets, which regularly gives public readings.  Mark graduated UCLA and teaches English for the Seattle Community College District.

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