Timmy’s, Yonge and Richmond
Looking up to rest my eyes I see
in every blur of passers by – you,
a purple puff of silk around your neck,
your slender figure, grace in every step.
Anyone can be anyone in this city.
I am stateless, persona non grata
among people going about their business,
reading on a bench, stopping in for coffee,
chatting with one who assembles sandwiches.
Then again, you, crossing the street,
carrying a bag this time, a purse next,
always somewhere to go that isn’t here.
Could you not once come in,
sit with me, watch the evening light
becalm the street? We could talk
about a movie one of us has seen.
Nothing between us but the faint scent of sandalwood
We’d grow old for an hour; I wouldn’t mind
if you checked your watch. Under the table
our knees might not touch.
I take off my reading glasses.
In an instant, we were never here –
only sounds of cars and cash registers,
an Antonioni slow fade to black –
(poets were all film-makers in the 60's, you said)
Outside you walk past, not turning to look.
I see you, harbinger of forgiveness.
Editor's note: This poem was performed at Conrad Didiodato's book launch on Father's Day and was well received by the guests assembled there.