Poetry

guts and gutters

7 May 2019

through the teetering squares of tram windows,
a lone shoe, its wind-ridden strap unfazed by
glass shards of artistic drunkenness,
lying just a few feet away
from—

in a passing blur—
the sentient lives of overworked clothes pegs,
relegated to uniformly coloured afterthoughts—

bulk-buys, dollar-for-dozen otherwise,
never complement anything but loss
around here.

as the hours grow out of my company,
they clamber like restless children,
their precarious curiosity protruding
in a packed tram,
elbowing someone else’s back;
I wondered what they saw out the window,
whether it matched what they were hoping to see.

this is what it feels like when time tries to slip
away from your aimless grip

but can you blame me,
when whatever the opposite of oblivion is,
has such an obstinate hold on me?
things that fall out of people’s purses call out to me,
imploring to be returned to what they are (not done being),
what they’re made for, who they used to be with.

still, I wonder if I’m helping them by
alerting their owners,
by saving them from
premature nihilism.

still, isn’t being left behind worse than
being thrown away?

I think now,
of the hours—
wonder who had the upper hand,
who did the throwing and
who’s doing the leaving and
where does that leave me.


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