Page 8 - Poems
P. 8

Line 4:

                            ONE DAY THERE WILL BE



        A   ll ours for the taking, you’d loved to declaim –

               randomly – across Bruges, Liège, Dhaka,
                Aarhus and Paris, though nothing was,
                  nothing, that sullen-as-teen Tuesday
                noon in June ’02. Not cabs, not cabbies
             unheeding, not buses, nor traffic lights, not
          the now-raging-now-pensive skies, no, not even
            senescent pigeons pursuing crawling delights
               on the sidewalks of Rue de Clignancourt
                  where we dissolved with all material
                woes and joys, too sodden even to spell
             or summon the chosen destination. Line 4,
         we chanted in silent unison, struggling to salvage
             mobile, corporeal selves that could stumble
                and skitter down those heartless flights  All ours for the taking, wildly you did proclaim
            of stairs, could flee into the gullet of Château  once we’d made it—blithely, incredibly, made
            Rouge: Hansel and Gretel seeking an ancient,  it, flanked by a ragtag battalion: dyspeptic satchels,
             unsavoury gingerbread castle, deserted now  a valiant, prehistoric trunk, various amoebic
                  by its resident witch, once acclaimed.   bundles (beginning to sprout pseudopodia
                                                 and cilia), oh, and a battered laptop case
                                                 that was not to survive the subterranean
                                                 joyride, spilling electronic innards somewhere
                                                 near Barbès-Rochechouart seconds before fortune-
                                                 tellers, dreadlocked cellists, blue-rose-vendors split
                                                 open the doors. Blithely, incredibly were we
                                                 spared the serenade of curses by fellow-
                                                 travellers at Gare du Nord, Gare de l’Est, even
                                                 Les Halles, despite our invasion of every square
                                                 inch of floor and space. Compassion, you claimed,
                                                 though fear of contagion was the saviour—fear
                                                 of such exultant, febrile fatigue as ours, with eyes
                                                 mindless of the tungsten, unspellable edict
                                                 of urban commutes (Thou shalt not meet
                                                 thine underground-neighbour’s gaze, nor speak
                                                 to him/her/their canine or child, nor, for any earthly
                                                 reason, smile): yes, it was our manic laughter
                                                 that kept well-earned invectives at bay
                                                 in the Paris I’d grown to wear as second
                                                 skin, the one you – fresh from vernal, Nordic
                                                 sense of community – tried to disclaim.


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