Communicator, cooker, drinker, poet. Grew up in a mining town, wore a hard hat.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

her gentle jawbone and that damn smile (or) words from a wasted morning

It was cold outside, I think.
Cold when I first met you.
It was a month of steam-thick words
and slow fingers. St-Clair was slippery
as hell. Early on there was talk of Israel,
as I recall. But my mind often betrays me
on the details, so I can’t be certain.
Spring of that year was sloppy, wet
and remains buried somewhere
beneath the dark sequined particles of time
that keep me wondering nervously
what I might’ve said. To you, at least.

Longer days found me writing messy
and far-too-frequent emails. That much
I remember because of the paper trail
that led me to wonder if I might escape
with you to New York and never return.
It was a cold Canadian summer spent scribbling
half-finished sentences in many places:
sweaty subway cars, badly-lit bedrooms
and siren-filled streets. I took you home
once in September, to my bachelor apartment
in that neighbourhood I’d rather forget.
You left in a taxi, I think.
You often leave in taxis, I think.

There was the bathhouse.
There was your birthday.
There was that election.
Sangria, martinis, Thursdays turned Wednesdays
and all of the dirty bathrooms in between.
And after having spent a morning contemplating
these lost but not forgotten moments
there are a few things I’d like to share:
I detest seeing you pinned up against
walls by other women, hate the way
the night ends when they’d like it to,
am angered by your had-a-great time
phone calls and loathe being reminded

Of how electric you are, whatever the occasion.