Wednesday, August 10, 2011

From Brookefield

He sits at the bus stop
That reads Brookefield,
An urban child with no history
Of its childhood....

Shoulders limp and head thrown back,
He listens to the noise
Of cars and passers-by
That dissolves yesterday's talks.
He flicks a finger, quietly
And turns it "mute".

He walks up to the road
That leads to more such roads.
He holds the road, the grey sky above it
And the city that stretches beyond
Between his fingers
Like a canvas of flowing colors
And moving images
That mean nothing.

He rips it apart.

He spreads a faint-blue canvas
And picks his paint-brush,
A lemon-yellow morning
And eternal sadness
Of many nights
That have not slept.

He paints "waiting"
Of the city-clock
That still ticks
In some forgotten days.

He tosses away the paintbrush,
Without a signature.
He walks away
And carries the canvas along.