January 19, 2008

George Street on a Sunday

Six p.m. on a Sunday, and the Street
is exhausted and showing its age.
The occasional cigarette flickers beneath
inquisitive and prickly blue eyes. It is not yet dark enough
to bring night's seedy glamour,
like a broken-mouthed alcoholic swaying
on a stage, haloed by charisma and whiskey fumes.

Six p.m. on a cold October
Sunday. A day of rest
for the wicked, who must all be
recovering at home, like instruments
resting darkly in their battered cases, lids
flung over them, like
an entry-stamped hand
flung across pink pillow prints
on mascara-flecked cheeks.

In Kelly's Pub, a man without a name
on a poster in the window
plays passable if listless Ralph McTell
for two old men eating fish and chips,
a group of restless business travelers from Halifax,
and a guy at the bar, who used to play
with a band who'd almost gotten famous once.

Everyone wonders
what everyone else is doing here, and there is
a feeling of guilt for disturbing this weary peace.
Even streets need their rest.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Nice! I am happy to have come across another forum for the work of one of my favourite authors on DP. Excellence! Ciao, TropicalSnowstorm