Sport 38: Winter 2010
I'll never get a poem from this neighbourhood
I'll never get a poem from this neighbourhood
Discarded sandals on doorstep & verandah say
otherwise, something so Sunday in their attitude
lying where cast, the jubilance of being without feet.
I make a mental note, cross the park and forget
to check the window where once I saw a woman's
head parallel an ironing board, the flash of metal
tongue licking straight brunette falls. I pause at the
former butcher's old glass door, islands of paint thinned
by the strain of being so looked upon by would-be poets.
Yearling beef
sides hinds
fores butts
I thought of your line on my walk sighs Alice,
sardonic as a bittern, as I follow her up humid streets.
It's my new criteria for renting a house. And right then
I sight it, crackling and clapping its wings, the poem.