I am stamping the blog with a poem instead of PB’s impressions as I prepare to hoof it out of town. Hoping that this get-away reboots my brain and produces thousands of words as I work on a certain bit of sequel.
T H O U S A N D S.
Wrong to put reboot and thousands-of-words in the same sentence. See? Time to stick my face in ocean wind while the boy investigates tide pools (I don’t go on get-aways without my preschooler and I wish his father could come, too–I’m bizarre that way). It’s almost April and April is poetry month, I’m told, so have a pre-poetry month poem on me. Or, you know, have an everything bagel in a kind cafe (but not on me). Non-light cream cheese. A book (with covers and pages) or a journal (with covers and unlined pages). A contented sigh because you remembered to bring a pen with you (oh how you love yourself at this second!). A sip of coffee with your cream. And, later, a madeleine.
in a cobble shaded by my sole.
Turret glimpsed through city elms.
My case thunking floorboards and you
flick on the television–no, not that.
Speaking encouraging bits to a stranger’s pair of black cats.
Toting bags of fruit and wine along a damp un-
familiar street as you sleep–that and figuring out
someone else’s keys in several Scottish locks and later,
from behind, the drizzle on your trenchcoat shines.
We adopted the same posture watching the vicious play, arms
crossed–that and handing my ticket to the man
with the tugged face Berwick-Upon-Tweed–no,
not that–my index finger tracing an outline
on iced window of North Sea fogging–no, not that–telling
the food and drinks trolley boy no thanks
with a smile that is American and overrated–that and kissing
my old friend’s cheek, then my bare foot
on carpeted, musical stair, pushing the door open with my knuckles,
lying beside you one last time in London–no, not that–the foxes,
British foxes on a terrible 3am tear–shrill, cruel, violent; be-
side you, hearing trees shudder their leaves, all traps
sprung. That is when I feel it.
That is when.