My crescent moon has disappeared. It knows How To Disappear Completely. I'm not here. This isn't happening.
Swept way, every morning.
From the pavements in fronts of shops.
In Montreal, des metalas sont dans chaque rue. Here, it is the brooms. It is a morning, afternoon, and evening passage. An action. Pharmacies, Market Stalls, Coffee shops, Grocery Extravaganzas, Taxi stands. Real Estate storefonts. Mobile Phone Hospitals. Sometimes there is a garden hose finishing the job. We sweep.
We hurry hard. Brushing the sheet. Straightening the rock. Heavy strokes. Head down.
They dust the granite and the paving stones and the cobble. Out, out, toward the street. Bits of dust. Maybe some litter.
I miss the morning crescent, yet always welcome a New Moon. I will be on the water somewhere in the East Sea for the next full moon, so as it waxes I will continue passing time. I disdain busy-ness. Schedules are crutches. Plans are excuses. Escapes.
Still I find miniscule chores. It is very important to feel the breeze! And, of course, I must hear the music, and there is such variety. There was some fishiness on my beach walk this dawn, so I can be sure my nostrils are effectively transferring olfactory data. I wonder. Where does my recycling go? I observe. I found the nearest bus stop and taxi stand. And, I heard my name called yesterday! It was Barb. I may not hear that again for a few weeks.
My quest is complete. My memories of my brother and his friends have been passed, in a nice stack of photographs, to his childhood cronies. I am glad that is behind me. Chipped off my shoulder, or off the old block, or maybe both. I listened to a long long list of names of people my brother knew who now dwell here for the better part of a year, year in, year out, some year-round. I used took into aging faces wondering if these are people I used to know. It is over now. I do not expect to hear my name.
~~n Post#11 Day7/75
Swept way, every morning.
From the pavements in fronts of shops.
In Montreal, des metalas sont dans chaque rue. Here, it is the brooms. It is a morning, afternoon, and evening passage. An action. Pharmacies, Market Stalls, Coffee shops, Grocery Extravaganzas, Taxi stands. Real Estate storefonts. Mobile Phone Hospitals. Sometimes there is a garden hose finishing the job. We sweep.
They dust the granite and the paving stones and the cobble. Out, out, toward the street. Bits of dust. Maybe some litter.
I miss the morning crescent, yet always welcome a New Moon. I will be on the water somewhere in the East Sea for the next full moon, so as it waxes I will continue passing time. I disdain busy-ness. Schedules are crutches. Plans are excuses. Escapes.
Still I find miniscule chores. It is very important to feel the breeze! And, of course, I must hear the music, and there is such variety. There was some fishiness on my beach walk this dawn, so I can be sure my nostrils are effectively transferring olfactory data. I wonder. Where does my recycling go? I observe. I found the nearest bus stop and taxi stand. And, I heard my name called yesterday! It was Barb. I may not hear that again for a few weeks.
My quest is complete. My memories of my brother and his friends have been passed, in a nice stack of photographs, to his childhood cronies. I am glad that is behind me. Chipped off my shoulder, or off the old block, or maybe both. I listened to a long long list of names of people my brother knew who now dwell here for the better part of a year, year in, year out, some year-round. I used took into aging faces wondering if these are people I used to know. It is over now. I do not expect to hear my name.
~~n Post#11 Day7/75
#brier2019 GoMBgo
photo credit: alamy stock photo
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