Tuesday, 16 July 2013

Cinderella, The Long Story

I leaned against the door
and thought of Friday Harbour,
that table for one when I was 24.
That glass of wine.

When I watched mobiles
sway outside shop windows,
and felt the breeze pass me
to hide in the tall grass.

Then I thought of you
because you would end this
peace by pointing to the ferry
or foraging for pebbles.

Although when we met,
you lay quiet and blue
on my chest. So they took
you away to make you pink.

And your father looked
across to you, while I looked
at him, wiping his eyes
with my hand, we waited.

I turn to that man, deciding
to stay, to make him
another coffee, if I could
remember how he liked it.

Placing it in front of him,
my arm across his,  Feeling
a different memory now
from a different day,

That day in the park, before
we had the courage to speak
of you. That day he spread his
coat for me to rest my head.

It was before mortgage payments
Before leaky pipes and
leaky roofs. Before interrupted
dinners and calorie counting.

Before that fucking gift bag.

He and I simply
intertwined and let
ourselves be warmed
by the sun.

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