The offending parts
I once worked in an office on the ground floor
behind a glass wall
the kind that reflects like a mirror on the other side
so the people walking by on the street
saw themselves, not me
I ate lunch at my desk
and watched them
a strangely compelling show
they must have known we could see them
but it was too tempting
the sudden appearance
of their flesh
a man winked once
and it took me a moment to realize
he was flirting
with himself
but it’s the women I remember the most
looking back
with such sadness
their soft bodies stuffed into pantyhose
their hands dropping instinctively
to veil the offending parts
of their shape
I wish I’d been brave enough to run after a few
tap them on their shoulders
out of breath
where did you get that skirt
man, you look smashing.
The arrival of intention
I can’t find any spoons for days
and then I see the tip of one
under the couch cushions
they are all there
your buried treasure
it’s new
this penchant for stashing
lining things up
a determination to wear gumboots
and no pants
you look at me with consternation
when I try to suggest a more seasonal outfit
or explain why the baseboard heater
is not a good resting place
for the blender
you don’t have the words yet
but the message is clear
I am the owner of me
but it is not all bluster
I watched you today
as you deliberated
where to place the pots and pans
an assortment on all our chairs
you looked grave
as though you were deciding the fates of millions
and then suddenly
you decided it was just right
and you erupted into a smile
slapping your belly
with bald-faced pride.
My unpredictable birthday moment
There is cake
and my husband plants poems
under my keyboard
phone calls and texts
I am stuffed with love
my mother sings to me
before noon
because that’s the rule
the day sewn up
with that half hour
unplanned
between stops
a cinnamon bun
an interview on the car radio
indie filmmakers
their journey makes my legs twitch
with my own big dreams
I had thought I would use the pocket of time
to reflect before the year thaws
into a murky version of itself
but I am too fizzy for contemplation
I unroll the window
a man is picking avocados
from the grocer’s basket on the sidewalk
he is singing Against All Odds by Phil Collins
I join in
loud
and then I drive away
not even blushing.
Sunrise
If you are up before the sun
you look at the other people
who are also up
with camaraderie
the Chinese women doing tai-chi on the dock
like slow-motion marionettes
the jogger
not a regular
you can tell by the way he keeps looking
at his watch
the young father
texting on his phone
his baby curled up like a koala bear
under his coat
you share a secret with them
that sleeping people don’t know
just before the world gets its colour back
the trees exhale
and the air tastes
like hope.
Audacious faith
The ducklings shoot across the lake
like pinballs
their mother bellows behind them
a litany of quacks
presumably about eagles
and staying in line
I feel for her
but I can’t help but root
for her babies
such exhilaration in their feet
racing into the newness
I see it in my son too
impervious to doubt
he runs from one moment to the next
convinced the world is waiting
to show him more tricks
watch his hands
they grab at everything
you think it’s curiosity
but it’s more urgent than that
it’s his spirit
hungry
as he shovels in life.
