"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

LENNOX STREET, RICHMOND, CIRCA 1959

As a boy I would stay awake at night,
Watching shadows on the patterned ceiling,
While cars raced
To the left
And to the right.
In the distance,
I’d hear tyres squealing.
On occasion heavy-loaded trucks passed,
Rumbling like thunder,
Brightening like lightning,
Shaking windows
Of fragile coloured glass,
Bumping potholes too hard,
Jarring,
Frightening.

By day the street was quiet,
Almost calm.
Horses led carts
Bringing fresh bread and milk,
Sounds of cows,
Lowing at the college farm.
In clear air
The mountains glowed,
Pure blue silk.

It was such a simple home,
Two bedrooms,
Toilet out back,
By the tomato patch,
A clothesline forked
Near honeysuckle blooms,
Caged chickens
Laying eggs that never hatched.

When the sun sank,
Splashing ochre on clouds,
Bringing the cool stillness of dusk,
Then night,
Above the vacant lots,
To tempt the crowds,
A picture house’s green neon shone bright.


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