Day to Day Poetry

#69

–vibrating cellphones, blue blinking light like
a searching helicopter halo above darkened alleys, futuristic Tokyo settling
in to reveal Robert Deckard in a tan trench coat hunched in front of a noodle shop
inhaling soup in a torrent of rain with men in blue behind him, the retired Blade Runner
his eyebrows wrinkled, cheeks set in, I ask, “Do you  like working there?”
looks away before distractedly replying, “yeah yeah I guess” and hopes nobody notice–
how about the old sunken face of a woman with black hair just moaning
a big bowl in front of her–catching what, I guess drool, like those scary faces you see
in walls of B list movies, mouth opened so wide just endlessly screaming, reaching
for something you can’t really see, she’s barely moving just groaning little sounds of
“Ugggghhhhh” zombie livified, I whisper, “do you want these (curtains) drawn all the way
round?” she smiles and says, “yes, yes please yes” and I pull them back, privacy
fraudulently manifested although such a thin piece of cloth still can’t erase that moaning
groaning pained face of the zombified woman whose bed is so close it
refuses to be separate–”they’re giving me poisoned water,” one old man in a cricketing
wheelchair keeps insisting at reception, “poisssooooonnneeed wattterrrrrrrrrr” his voice
so spidery you can almost trace the barely visible tendrils floating out of his dried up lips
in white wisps of smoke that curls at the tip–the first time she spoke it was through
dried spouts of breaths, little whispers so grey it felt like fog, like the one that scattered
that early morning drive to Barrie inside a tiny Honda with a hippie teacher who once
sported a purple beard while he TA’d–who offered to buy me a burger, she said “if you don’t like coffee,
try cafe mocha” and it was divine, I squealed at the whipped cream and she laughed and
said, “that’s my favourite part.”

Now, with a shaking finger, she points and whispers, “That’s my doctor.”
And I said, “Yes, I’ve met him.”

–which floor? the question drawn on her face, she turns to us and
he pressed 3, she withdraws a finger back (it was hovering at 2)
smiles and apologizes, “this place is a maze” –like Union station?
Remember? We laughed and I
took your hand to go
wherever they wanted us to go
where you said, “We’re just one
big experiment
inside a rat maze
here at Union Station”–but she looked confused when
I showed up in her favourite dress, the one she
danced in, pranced in, would not let anyone touch that night
a piece of clothing she loved and adored for twelve straight hours
and now can’t remember, that’s okay, there’s always time for
remakes and
please tell me  you haven’t forgotten me – as selfish as it is, as profoundly,
incredibly, divinely selfish as it is –
don’t forget me don’t forget me don’t forget me
even in your comatose dreams, please don’t forget me – and

endless games of crib.

In between the poisoned water man and the zombified woman and the
fake blonde with the bulging tan she gave all her milk to because they thought she
was lactose intolerant so she ate her cereal dry, and those big megaheadphones
to keep all the sounds out at night,
she smiled and bit a strawberry, red going down her cheek,
and says, “Babe, that’s more of a start
than you could have ever asked for” with
as much suave as her namesake could say
while she married Mickey Knox in a white flowing dress
with flowers in her hair
on top of a highway.

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