Friday, July 24, 2015

139 poems about the moon #4

on the sidewalk,
across the street
from the patio at the only
i catch the barest glimmering sight of you,
your hair, wisps out behind you
tiny strands of a dream
i can almost remember.

you're headed towards aylmer street.

i throw twenty dollars in the direction of the bartender,
bolt out the door,
dodge the traffic - almost killed! -
stumble on the curb,
catch myself on a lampost,
careen off the fender of a parked car,
go running down the street,
a sloppy man, a careful woman
wide-eyed as they leap for safety.
chest pounding,
lungs heaving,
vision blurry,
slowing now,
collapsing in an ungainly heap
on the step in front of sandy's convenience store,
where i lay gasping and clutching at the pain in my chest
like a dinosaur, run to ground,
like the last dinosaur on the face of the planet,
shot, stripped of my liver,
which will be sold for thirty dollars
to a practitioner of ancient healing arts
in a shop above a hair salon
in a plaza somewhere in the undignified part
of mimico.

you were always just out of reach,
a condescending air,
a smirk, playing at the corners of your mouth.
there are some relationships you just can't get out of,
parked cars you can't walk away from.

the elders called you half-moon.
you never became fully-formed.
i knew what you would become,
just never knew how you would get there.

or when.

and now i'm in a heap on the sidewalk on hunter street,
wreckage of seasons past,
who only wanted to love you.

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