It's Still Life

The 7th and 8th of May

I had a friend,
a fixed-face woman
who wore her chiselled
chin with pride of place.

She rose at dawn
to look for work, and

when I asked her
where hope would take her
feet that day, she said —
Anywhere there are rolling hills,

singing children, and
people bright with sun.

And then she said,
Narrow minds are dangerous.
I adored her cryptic ooze.
So she and I set off on that

hot morning in May,
goodhearted as the day,

and we walked along
a broad listless river,
following its rolls and
crumples at every bend.

Its water was a busy jingle,
the sun alive and laughing.

Those were picnic days
when you didn’t stay home
for anyone. And I longed
to stop, to die, to be forever,

because nothing could ever
be so good as this again.

But I’m still here,
coaxing every twilight
into another faint dawn.
Still without prejudice.

for Gnomes “Words Words Words”