Bob Marcacci
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A San Francisco State University graduate and native Californian presently living and writing in Beijing, China, Bob’s poems have appeared in many print and electronic publications around the world. Recent work has appeared in Ghoti, Poems Niederngasse, The Surface and Zafusy.

 

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Poem

 

It¹s mid-February, and there is this tree

                         outside the library¹s smoked plate window,

     with blackbirds for leaves instead of leaves.

                                     Another tree still holds her needles,

             beautiful, green, but not the one with blackbirds.

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Poem

 

if you listen and you can                                                                                  

   hear rain

   clatter over industry

   we are not voices

     in your ear

 

 the dull plot of another drop

   on the metropolis

     on something

    plunking a rain gutter

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Poem 

 

A night at the corner going home

 

in my San Francisco, like foghorns,

       haunts me.

                   Got to get out of my head

     fetters totally.  Number

passed houses storms

           sidewalks cement overgrown

                                      green

                          hung down drunk with flowers

                  shadows.  6 blocks

and I¹ll be home.

It¹s November.

Haight St. stirs up

       the worried-looking-nowhere,

 

here I am

strange as a tiger surprised color

hog-looking-man inside

to get going.

 

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