Welcome to “Poetry at The Arts Fuse.” A new poem every Thursday

 

Brick

Down the longing boulevard
we go poor.

Those bereft of a home,
let alone a brownstone,

spit their spite
at numbered doorsteps.

Beauty is
beauty’s

purpose,
we tell ourselves.

No jealousy in our drifting glance
down the sunlit lane.

The squirrel squirreling
in my backpack

nibbles gum
and Tylenol.

The scene’s sparse sublimity
rewards wanderers—

each brick tautology
a squint,

but I’m used to being seen.
The homeowners

shut the windows
and draw the curtains.

Dreams! Phantasmagoria!
How petty and material!

Can we hazard past
our decadent poverty?

Will every beggar
open dead eyes

inside a townhouse?
How much

for a cup of water?
In the city of prices

my wallet
is empty.

What is within
is the art.

I rest on the stoop
but the loitering threat. . .

Even brick
can’t deny

the slow erosion
bearing each glorious

edifice to the
originating entropy—

time’s sinister errand
sped.

Art galleries
deny public entry.

Inside are billboards
from a gone age.

You can hear baseball
game cheers

from the bar next-door.
But the ballpark is empty.

 

Michael McCarthy is a poet and translator based in the Greater Boston area. His poems, short stories, and reviews have appeared in Barzakh Magazine, the Adroit Journal, and Prairie Schooner, among others. His debut chapbook Steve: A Gift is available from the Moonstone Arts Center.

 

Note: Hey poets! We seek submissions of excellent poetry from across the length and breadth of contemporary poetics. See submission guidelines here. The arbiter of the feature is the magazine’s poetry editor, John Mulrooney.

— Arts Fuse editor Bill Marx