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Showing posts from January, 2019
36. Hat trick on the canal
A streak of wind tore off my hat and flung it far, in the canal, to drift,
to the ducks, who ducked, to avoid the thing,
but then they chuckled and took to it to play.

They tossed it from left to right and around. I took a stick to retrieve
the loved cover of my balding spot,
and poked among the gaggle of ducks.

But then a barge full of British guys came barrelling down from under the bridge,
spread out the ducks in frantic flurry,
and sank my hat.

But when it moved past, with the Brits all in beers and cheers,
the hat had emerged,
and I caught it with a flick of my stick.
35. Far ahead


She is far ahead of you,
the doctor said.


Not a shadow of a chance
to keep up.


All her lineaments stretched,
and ready to snap.


Don’t hold her back,
she is ready to leave you for dead.


Wills you to be still,
to receive what departs.


The final gasp resounds
for ever. You hold the line,


for want of reply,
length of a different wave.


You will tend her grave,
scratch out the weeds.


Plant flowers,
in winter bulbs


to blossom a memory
forever.
34. Look, daddy, look
In Serajevo, long before the insanity broke, 
we stood leaning on a bridge, each other, and you spoke look, daddy, look, and you pointed at I know not what,
I had eyes only for you. A minaret, perhaps, now reduced to ruin.

A bit later we rolled, overwhelmed by lust, in a patch of garden, next to a gate, barely covered by roses, unlatched,
where later a sniper took aim. I still taste in your hair
the dust we kicked up, feel a pebble that pricked in my back.

You sought in me what I could not offer, a shoulder of tweed, scent of a pipe, the father
you lost. And I was the young lad of love, who
worshipped you, reaching but never reaching, nor reached.

Do you recall, or has it all gone, disappeared, the moments that still the ticking, the pricking pebbles
of time, the taste of dust, now settled, and gone. Or is it not 
all undone, osmosis in the midden of your mind?