In a hand ball court,
in the forefront of a park
she spreads her limbs.
They reach no corners
and no walls
in the small box.
She pulls out cigarettes,
he pulls out a liter,
they smoke,
to be adults.
In the fog of a Parliament
she wishes to not see his face.
Her heart does not ache,
it feels nothing,
when he pulls in to kiss her.
They smudge the burnt ends on the white walls,
leaving a semi-permanent mark
for tomorrow.
Looking at one another
he must think she wants him,
in the darkness that is to come
and the loneliness that is to follow.
Fleeing the the white walls
they try to feel mud beneath their feet,
tracing tracks,
they know
they have taken before.
The trees lean,
creating darkness
where light once was
and then again
darkness.
She does not pull
out a sign of love,
or a hand to grab,
just another cigarette,
gazing at him
for a light.
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1 comment:
Colleen,
I was truly taken by this poem the first time I read it. Reading it again today, it unfolds a little more. That has to define great poetry--It takes you somewhere special, even if painful, every time you read it. Thanks for sharing this one.
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