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Poetry

Building My Homes In Owen Sound

توسط دسامبر 13, 2021سپتامبر 15th, 2022بدون نظر

At 4:30 a.m.
Morning is overwhelming

Water is heavy over the riverbed-body, there
on the Mill Dam

 

Outside Margaret’s window
Night lingers, longing to seep in, to enfold

 

I’ve counted all the turns the wind took 
before blowing away

 

In a minute I’ll go out in to the outside 
To build my house across the road

 

It is that hour again, when everyone has a door 
to open and shut

 

Is it morning, when it’s 4:30 a.m
Is it not

 

Are you awake, if the clock says it’s 4:30 a.m.

 

I don’t know
I am not from here

 

Are you aware of the hour’s sly hand
Ticking on the wall on the Carnegie Hall 
All the while you are building your house

by the fireplace

 

I know nothing beyond the windows of the house

I am building tonight

 

I saw the moon, yesterday, before noon, crazy

Walking up the streets, pretending, hah, to be a lone star

I am not sure now, but here in the Owen Sound, a Moon
Idling down the road, or even up, when the time is indeed reserved for the Sun
is unheard of

 

The night is loud, selfishly dark

I’m getting out of the house

To build my house on the

backstreets of the Harrison Park

Should I turn left
Right

I am not sure

Who am I to know

I am not from here

 

If I had the means, I would call Ruth
She’d know

She said she would go out of her way to

find and match all the answers to the question, leave it in the fridge for me to have some
 if I wished, with my tea

 

Now if only she’d tell me how she keeps

the head of the goddess inside the hat of mayoral calm

I’d stop looking

 

It is loud

Night is in to stay till 7 a.m

I am not particularly sick

I am not particularly not

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

 

When it’s light outside, I’ll go to build my house

On the right corner of 9th St., when

it hits one of the Second Avenues

The Avenue is a good spot, almost perfect, covered by a layer of cobwebs specially made for the intersection where I am always un-delivered, between the two post offices

But, who am I to know

I am not from here

 

If Judy doesn’t hold my hand, I’ll be lost and find I’ll never be found

 

When Judy ran, I ran

She said, “Nice”

I said, “Yes”

But I said “Nice” afterwards, honestly

it felt as if nice turned suddenly nice, regardless

 

Then I stopped and walked

into the Bay Shore

to build my house

they say, that’s what every one does

 

If only would Ann keeling woul

give me a hand to cut a patch of

the asphalt for the bed

I am used, can’t help it

to life on the roughs

“I wouldn’t,” she’d say, “Surely you can learn,” she’d say

“to love the soft body of water

the soft singing of birds, the

soft leaves falling, the soft

wind’s murmur, the soft fish fished, the

soft snow spread, the soft

sweet sweat when you have

worked, happily, all day long

 

Now, couldn’t I just learn

I don’t know


Owen Sound , Ontario
2003