If You Were Here, I’d Be Home Now
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
There was a street light
singing orange flickers
to the left-bound
snow-scarred gutters
of N. Charles St.
last night.
There were lovers beneath it,
hiding the shine
under their skin
like boxed pastels.
They breathed in
only the boldest stars
and exhaled their own cloudy wishes
in each others faces
while they played
with each others lips
and tried to gauge
whether or not
this place felt enough like home.
The night looked like
broken bones
reworked into twenty-one inches
of fallen skeleton
at 9:52 pm;
A flower on Decembers finest dress.
The potholes were sleeping,
dreaming noisy street corners
among vinyl highways,
blanket-sleeper sidewalks,
and hand-painted road signs.
This city’s skull
was made of water ferries
and abandoned buildings–
it’s skin
tattooed with murals and charm.
Those lovers
wiped their feet on the skyline
and hung their hats
on the harbor.
They made fun of the dark,
the way it cowered to alleys and bedsides
and frowned at the night,
the way it felt like overlooked roadwork
and car accidents.
They reminded me of us.
There was a light on in my house.
Someone was waiting up for me
like I still lived there.
If you were here, I’d be home now.
One Response to “If You Were Here, I’d Be Home Now”
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Alysia Says:
December 31st, 2009 at 12:46 amMmmm skull… water ferries…. night looked like broken bones reworked into 21 inches of falling skeleton.
