1 Poem by Dylan Loring
One Last Soliloquy, Ramona
Ramona, I know better than to pine for you,
and yet here I am in America’s pine belt
camped out at my door awaiting
my special delivery from amazon.ca,
ears open for the marbles-on-concrete sound
of roller skates steady enough to take you
all the way here from Toronto. Ramona,
if it helps, I can make you more than simple
garlic bread, and I’ve gone to the store
for some of that yucky tea you like.
Ramona, unlike Pilgrim, I’ve read Gideon’s email
a few hundred times, and am smart enough
to know that I can’t out-act Chris Evans,
can’t beat Jason Schwartzman at fencing,
have no chance of out-poeming Josh Bell.
I grew up only about 20 miles from
your wannabe-vegan Superman,
but that’s as close as I’ll ever get
to Kevin Bacon, let alone you, Ramona.
Ramona, I’ve been saying your name
so frequently for so long
that I revived Michael Keaton’s career,
that Beezus Quimby, now in her late sixties,
has started giving me a weird stare
when we pass on the sidewalk.
Ramona, the truth is I gave up on you
years ago, so you might ask—why am I
requesting your unreal presence?
Or not; you, the perpetually aloof,
head in spacetime, mulling over
the next color of hairstreak. Regardless
Ramona, it is because I am in the midst
of processing brand-new facts:
that Envy Adams is pregnant, that I am
not the father, and never will be.
Ramona, I have ordered a deluxe snowstorm
from Amazon Canada in hopes you’ll deliver
your usual numbing coldness.
Ramona, I know better than to pine for you,
and yet here I am in America’s pine belt
camped out at my door awaiting
my special delivery from amazon.ca,
ears open for the marbles-on-concrete sound
of roller skates steady enough to take you
all the way here from Toronto. Ramona,
if it helps, I can make you more than simple
garlic bread, and I’ve gone to the store
for some of that yucky tea you like.
Ramona, unlike Pilgrim, I’ve read Gideon’s email
a few hundred times, and am smart enough
to know that I can’t out-act Chris Evans,
can’t beat Jason Schwartzman at fencing,
have no chance of out-poeming Josh Bell.
I grew up only about 20 miles from
your wannabe-vegan Superman,
but that’s as close as I’ll ever get
to Kevin Bacon, let alone you, Ramona.
Ramona, I’ve been saying your name
so frequently for so long
that I revived Michael Keaton’s career,
that Beezus Quimby, now in her late sixties,
has started giving me a weird stare
when we pass on the sidewalk.
Ramona, the truth is I gave up on you
years ago, so you might ask—why am I
requesting your unreal presence?
Or not; you, the perpetually aloof,
head in spacetime, mulling over
the next color of hairstreak. Regardless
Ramona, it is because I am in the midst
of processing brand-new facts:
that Envy Adams is pregnant, that I am
not the father, and never will be.
Ramona, I have ordered a deluxe snowstorm
from Amazon Canada in hopes you’ll deliver
your usual numbing coldness.
Dylan Loring is a poet from Des Moines, Iowa. His poems have appeared in Ninth Letter, The Laurel Review, New Ohio Review, Split Lip Magazine, North American Review, and Forklift, Ohio.
