Posted: May 2, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

The girl with the red umbrella

The smoke from my fading cigarette
rises and parts ,
and like an angel in the clouds
she appears in a darkened doorway.
I call her Gilda.
It probably isn’t her name, I know, but I once watched a film.
It was in black and white and
I was a kid and Gilda haunts me still.
My Gilda holds a red umbrella while staring up at a clear blue sky.
She smokes a Camel on the corner
Of Washington and Vine and watches
cars go by.
Her hair is bleached, strands of straw,
the color of dying snow, her eyes
tar pools in a translucent face.
My Gilda waits for the workmen,
driving home after a dirty day.
She can make them forget.
She’s Amnesia girl.
If I was a man; if I was half a man
I’d take her away and show her the movie,
and say to her.
“This is who you are.”
But I just sit by the cafe window,
sipping lukewarm latte, a virgin voyeur.
When it starts to rain, she folds the umbrella,
stops a motor
and makes someone’s day.


People in plastic
cleaned out my neighbor’s apartment

I thought I was in a bad movie
as I walked up the stairs
Carrying Millie’s donuts and heard someone say
“He’s dead”,
but I didn’t see the body.

I don’t think I ever saw my neighbour alive.
He used to play Sinatra records all day.
I used to like that fly me to the moon song.
I’ll miss that.

I sang it to my girlfriend once.
She never understood the meaning behind
the words.
She prefers crap rap.

The people in plastic cleared out the apartment and
left it like new.
For the next tenants.
It smells of disinfectant.
So I guess strerility works.

Maybe I’ll play dead and they’ll clean out mine.
I hope the new people like swing.

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