The rest we have to guess.
June 30, 2012
Too Much Time On The Phone
That girl has too much to say. Such big teeth. Such a big mouth. Breath like mints. You thought she was a wolf. I think she’s a saint. And I would have married her. If she hadn’t sworn that she was engaged. To the Moody Blues.
Several generations later. She lives in a flat. High above Yonge Street. There’s a parade going on in the street. But she can’t hear the music. Someone comes in to cook her dinner. She has meds on her counter for everything from bone hardeners. To blood thinners.
I swore. I was living a different life. A Scottish hoodlum. Raiding the Roman encampments. On three day weekends. The doctor tells me that he has to change my prescription. My memories have been invaded by history.
In the middle of the city. On a cold damp evening. Loneliness scurries through the alleys. Eats what it can. Sleeps behind the Chinese Laundromat. We know what is real. The rest we have to guess.