January 2020
Clint Margrave
cmargrave@gmail.com
Bio Note:  Clint Margrave is the author of Salute the Wreckage (2016) and The Early Death of Men (2012), both published by NYQ Books. His poems have appeared in The Threepenny Review, The Writer’s Almanac, and Rattle, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA.

Room

Whenever I buy a cup of coffee,
I always appreciate how the barista will ask,
“Do you need room?”
And I think, what a better world it’d be
if we all just did this.

You’re at work, the stress piled up,
when the boss nudges you,
pops the question,
and off you go home for the week.

Your lover, after spending days together,
wakes up and at the nod of your head,
without saying anything,
gets dressed and leaves.

You’re on the freeway,
about to miss the exit,
when the driver in the next lane
sees your blinker,
gently taps his brakes
and with a flash of his lights,
signals you’re clear.

Imagine what could happen
at the borders of
India and Pakistan,
Israel and Palestine,
China and Tibet.

Or the inner borders
of harsh judgment
and bitter regret.

Imagine if the pilgrims
had asked the Indians?
Cortez, the Aztecs?
(Just before he turned around his ships.)

Imagine a suicide bomber
ordering his last mortal cup of java,
at a Jerusalem café,
doomsday device
strapped to his chest,
only to be astonished
by the barista’s question
nobody in his terrorist training camp
ever bothered to ask.

It’s a basic amnesty
carried far
beyond a coffee cup,

that whether or not
intends to be, says a lot about the importance
of allowing each other space
to feel and think.

“Yes,” I always tell the barista
even though I don’t take cream.

Because with room nothing ever spills,
creates a dark black stain,
scorches me.

Leonard Cohen’s House on Hydra

My friend Henry Denander
who owns a place on the island,
told me how to get there
when my girlfriend and I
visited last summer.

His directions included things like,
turn right, go 50 meters,
and pass the carpenter’s shop
with the very sweet dog;
then turn left, go 100 meters,
and pass the other carpenter’s shop
with the other very sweet dog.

“Will you be picking any flowers
over Leonard’s garden wall?” Henry asked.
I hadn’t even thought of it.

My girlfriend took a picture of me
posing at Leonard’s front door.
Inside, through an open window,
we could hear a little boy talking.
Henry said it was probably
Leonard’s grandchild since his son
sometimes stayed there.

Four months later,
the news of Leonard’s death
would make me pluck the flower
from between the pages
of The Book of Longing
where I’d placed it
after I got home.

The Second Day of the Year

No one ever talks about it.

The parties have ended.
Confetti has been swept up and thrown away.
Headaches have disappeared.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always preferred
the second day of the year.

Because it’s ordinary, unassuming.

The streets are quiet.
Stores are open.
There are no parades or football games.

You can walk without feeling lonely.

Nobody wants to quit smoking
or propose,
or make promises they can’t keep.

On the second day of the year,
nobody expects anything.

Plans are struck down,
couples go on fighting,
bigger and better resolutions get made.
“Room” originally appeared in Chiron Review and The Early Death of Men (NYQ Books)
“Leonard Cohen’s House on Hydra.” Originally appeared in Anthem: a Tribute to Leonard Cohen
“The Second Day of the Year.” Originally appeared in Re)verb and The Early Death of Men (NYQ Books)
©2020 Clint Margrave
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