Stella Read
Canadian poet who loves to read international literature, travel, birding and knitting.
while I waited for a
connecting flight
in the Lisbon airport
I found myself seated opposite
an elderly man in a red hat
bearing, in bold script
Hot Stuff
he looked a bit timid
air puffs
foot shuffles
the man’s eyes
widened
his lady returned
from the loo
she smiled coyishly
at seated onlookers
eyebrow raised
yes, it’s true
reading Leonard Cohen
by candlelight,
visualizing
bonfire night,
your birthday
were you still alive
under that streetlamp,
we could walk together
to your bench
and talk awhile
it’s what we always did best—
just talk, just care
I’ll print this poem
in a lonely font
and burn it
in a bowl,
set the ashes facing east
next time it storms
blue jays build a nest in the pine,
swallows migrate overhead,
wren in and out of the compost,
centipede in beak
behind the fence
children screech,
entitled neighbours
don’t distance from friends,
posture, to sear game meat
drink, smoke, snort
we sip coffee
in the comfort of
inverse snobbery,
snicker
that their RV is worth more
than our house and contents,
exchange snide
whispers,
our quiet, spoiled
from...
