lunch on tuesday

Nobody
can now
tell me that
the impossible can’t happen.
A new broom sweeps clean,
Mighty oaks from little acorns grow,
A cat may look at a king,
And, indeed, the show really must go on.

Once upon a time in far-away lands,
there lived a short tale that,
before it had a chance
to stretch its wings,
wilted, just as
an epigram
began.

On purposeful Wednesdays, iron steps
reverberate across the pavement;
absolutely nothing can
prevent locomotive
intent.

Trying
to take
steps back from
judgement and
preconception.

I find it difficult to know
who to look up to
in these days of
distance, image and
very large
pedestals.

Enjoying the deep, rich centres was effortless, but
there came a day when wanderlust descended:
I began to move my crayon
toward the borders of the
paper in search of
the clenching joy
of fuzzy
edges.

You and your delicate little bones have gone through so much:
a fracture in your back right femur, two pelvic fractures,
two splintered kneecaps that needed to be wired together
bouts of asthma (controlled with a Ventolin inhalor),
a thyroid removal, seasonal problems with allergies,
special diets to combat renal problems.
Still, you always seem content.

I wish I knew
how to walk
with such
grace.

It still reminds us of Murakami’s “Barn Burning”.
Every time it comes up in conversation,
you repeat exactly the same thing,
that line from the story.
It makes us laugh,
then go quiet
as we
think,
you about
arson and literature,
me about how peculiar
it is that this encounter
became a defining feature of your
single short glimpse of my home town.

It was when I didn’t know
that I’d return one day.
The things I’d shipped
home by sea
traveled for
months.
When the
crates finally arrived,
I’d forgotten their contents.
The first one opened contained
the stilted, slightly sweet, somewhat stale,
decidedly foreign yet dearly familiar
smell of my college
woven into
the very
fibres
of the
bedraggled gown that,
during formal halls,
enveloped me like a musty hug.

There is never need to fear
the human race in places
where every adult building
has a reliable
sense of
humour.