It's Still Life

Maybe It Was a Saxophone

I’m not sure if it’s a saxophone or a cornet,
but the sound is pure green. The day is green.
I sat on a half-rotten wooden bench this afternoon,
one end higher than the other because the sidewalk
had cracked and rose up like anger. And my feet
were killing me — wooden clogs and swollen ankles,
both made the trip across town a never-ending
bitterness — bitter like when the last government
increased tax on cigarettes every year until I
couldn’t afford to indulge in an early death anymore.
Bitterness, that’s what I felt bitterness. And panic.

Over there is a shop, there across the street,
selling cheeseburgers. The smell’s driving me insane.
When I quit smoking ten years ago, I could suddenly
smell everything, which isn’t always pleasant,
and then I gave up fatty food because if smoking
wasn’t going to strike me down soon, then I might
as well have a healthy heart, but that didn’t mean
that the smell of a cheeseburger wasn’t higher
on my pleasure list than sex. Well, it was actually.

But that’s what happens when you’re suddenly eligible
to collect a pension – everything changes. Like that
young woman who stood from her seat on the bus
the other day, and offered me her place. Take a load off,
she said, meaning my feet. Everything changes.
Everything. When I bought the newspaper this morning,
I walked by a red-faced child angry as a cramped muscle –
her mum played deaf to it all. Now that’s a brave woman.
The kid wanted a Milky Way bar. Sugar for breakfast.
I’ve given up sugar, too — did I mention that?
I’m still not sure if that’s a saxophone or cornet,
but those green tones are like a warm Irish bog.
There must be an orchestra playing nearby.

Folk Poetry for dVerse