lunch on tuesday

I find it difficult to know
who to look up to
in these days of
distance, image and
very large
pedestals.

Enjoying the deep, rich centres was effortless, but
there came a day when wanderlust descended:
I began to move my crayon
toward the borders of the
paper in search of
the clenching joy
of fuzzy
edges.

You and your delicate little bones have gone through so much:
a fracture in your back right femur, two pelvic fractures,
two splintered kneecaps that needed to be wired together
bouts of asthma (controlled with a Ventolin inhalor),
a thyroid removal, seasonal problems with allergies,
special diets to combat renal problems.
Still, you always seem content.

I wish I knew
how to walk
with such
grace.

It still reminds us of Murakami’s “Barn Burning”.
Every time it comes up in conversation,
you repeat exactly the same thing,
that line from the story.
It makes us laugh,
then go quiet
as we
think,
you about
arson and literature,
me about how peculiar
it is that this encounter
became a defining feature of your
single short glimpse of my home town.

It was when I didn’t know
that I’d return one day.
The things I’d shipped
home by sea
traveled for
months.
When the
crates finally arrived,
I’d forgotten their contents.
The first one opened contained
the stilted, slightly sweet, somewhat stale,
decidedly foreign yet dearly familiar
smell of my college
woven into
the very
fibres
of the
bedraggled gown that,
during formal halls,
enveloped me like a musty hug.

There is never need to fear
the human race in places
where every adult building
has a reliable
sense of
humour.

Minutes tiptoed away
and hours
fled,
chased away
as if ravenous
yesterday was
lumbering
behind them.

I met yesterday,
just once.
Night
had fallen
but midnight had
forgotten to
arrive.

Yesterday was
not paying attention;
I was
lost
in thought.

We both turned
around the
moment
we realised
we weren’t alone.

There was
silence
as yesterday
gathered the courage
to ask
me
whether I
could give directions
to tomorrow.

(glance, starting with a line from Norman Dubie)

His chapel fell into flowers long ago
but the church itself still stands;

the congregation is no more
but a few individuals
still remember how
he rephrased
Sundays.

where
sidewalks bark;
where flowers growl
where stop signs wink
and look the other way;
where even the towels have eyes

Back in those hazy memory days, before I
learned how to imprint memory with motive,
I remember getting angry, throwing you away.

I wanted to rescue you,
but I wasn’t allowed
to take things
from the
garbage.

You
were gone
forever, but I
could see you there,
in front of my eyes.

I don’t know why you made
such an impression, but ever since, you’ve
come to mind during moments of unbearable sadness.