T.D. Reisert - "Call This Honest"

Water gathers most where the tires used to be,
The ghosts of rubber seem to keep it from being absorbed into the pavement,

The motion-sensitive lights go off as I approach, it makes me feel invisible,
I look at the tall leaves lit from underneath by garage lights, it makes me feel small and old,

I pass a giant hole with its perimeter covered in an upright fence, my body makes two shadows,
An up-close shadow on the frost of the fence, formed as I walk by,
And a distant further shadow, of my whole figure, that is constant on the sides of the hole below,

I smell blossoms and feel the cool wind that comes with rain,
I have smelt and felt these things before,

Dark figures, silhouetted by the lights inside their houses, sit on their dark balconies, like smoking gargoyles or saints,
But at least powerful in their stillness, unseen staring,

I slow my pace, I don't want to get home too quickly,

I will not pull my hood over my head, I want to get as wet as possible,
It is only a light rain.

From behind, the houses sit like exhibits in a museum,
A museum with no context, left up to the patron to make their own meaning,
To learn their own lessons

So many people work so very hard,
And if not so very hard, they at least work,

Outside at night in the warm weather in a light rain is a very good time for smoking,
The smoker can feel justified for the first time in a year,
Yes, this is why I smoke, this silence, this perfect,

I stop in front of a kicked-in fence, and look through the hole,
I stop at the back entrance to a church, I consider checking if the door is open,
It is not,
I stop in front of a youth house, ages 12-17, and think about the lives inside,
I wonder, partly jealous, if they have any wonderful ideas in their heads,

The city, a beautiful city, a residential city, feels tonight like a rather idealess place.

[Buy]

--

ALSO: I will be appearing on CBC's WireTap this weekend reading a very lovely story that I did not write.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.