Third Floor Room, St Jacob’s
The view from the window is
scrambled eggs, a squirrel playing
dead man’s leap with parking
lot cars. Down the driveway, traffic
genuflects to rush hour and
that nagging pain in the side sings
verses from the history of....
On stormy days, I’d lie on the front yard, watch the clouds come down from the north and rain on Waterloo. Summer basements smelled like caviar drawn from sump pumps, fruit cellars and long forgotten clothing and chairs. The world ended at the horizon. The world ended at the tip of my travels on the East Ward bus; my walks downtown to listen to 45's in a booth. Life is so simple when it rhymes.
A cloud grazes blue,
the trees are lighthouses
espousing life. On the tip of
my tongue rests a eulogy–
when I’m dead and gone, please....