SMALL TALK AND PARKING LOTS

We stood
like two short brick chimneys
while smoke billowed from our mouths
and the tops of our heads.
We stood
in this place we never planned.
“It’s cold,” you said,
casually cracking the
porcelain cage of our atmosphere
as you shuffled your soles against
the blacktop.
Your shiver was malignant.
Tiny rivers dammed around our shoes
as we stood at the center of something
boring, nonchalant and
unimportant.
Or perhaps it was too important
that we had to shake it off
like the raindrops from our hair
before it burned our scalps.

My socks were still wet
as I climbed into bed.
I pulled the covers around me
like a poor cocoon
that smelled of Tide and college.
My face pressed pink against
the mattress
as the rain beat the blues
against my window.

Shannon Monique Vandawalker

30,240 MINUTES AGO

Three weeks ago I’d look out my kitchen window
And I’d see the neighbour’s hill’s hoist
Half heartedly latch on to a passing breeze
Before running out of gas and stopping
I’d see that distant flock of birds in their Friday evening group therapy session
Conforming like quiet bike riders in China all going in the same direction
Then suddenly deviating like motorists in Europe looking for a short cut
“Let’s go east, no let’s go west!”
First gear, second gear, first gear again
I’d see the fence palings, grey and stagnant
Pinned back by nails
Suffering and waiting to be let down to rest in the garden bed
I’d see the backyards of my suburb, one after the other as cardbored boxes
Filled with rubbish and clutter and things you throw out

But that was three weeks ago
Five hundred and four hours ago
Thirty thousand two hundred and forty minutes ago
My point is, much has happened since then
Things I cannot explain now
Right now I want to make another point
And that is that today
Things from the view of my kitchen window
Are looking up

The hill's hoist is waiting for the neighbours rinse and spin cycles to end
And is pacing impatiently, one way then the other
Soon it will be adorned with the lady of the house’s new satin lingerie
And crowned sultan in a draping harem of bedroom lace and underwear
The flock of birds are a picture of perfect freedom
I see one of them lead from the front and brave a new direction and I notice the others follow in quick pursuit
I see two of the younger members lag behind and suddenly lose their way until the flock returns to be reunited with them in a true airport homecoming
They fly away in oneness, synchronised but timeless
The fence palings proudly defend the brick veneer palaces they protect
Warding off barking dogs
And providing a resting place for some snails who are preparing to sleep
The backyards of my suburb, one after the other are the image of Utopia
A collection of treasure chests
And inside them I find pants folded up to the knee
Laughter and sadness
Footballs that kiss the sky
Thongs, bicycles, ashtrays, sheds and blue swimming pools
All the beautiful accessories of life

Theo Vogdanis (boyatthewindow)

THE BENEFIT OF NOSTALGIA

Rain-laden leaves drop lazily down,
balls of brown sugar
suspended in amber streetlamp glow.

All lights long since switched off,
house by house, on Rainbow Road –
lips and engines hushed, waiting.

All noise is water now –

The swashing lake behind the ranch,
a fizzle of mist on dead leaves,
maple cast-offs that fip-fap on asphalt.

The wash of water rings orchestral
before stage scenes of the mind –
summer sweat, red wine, black fishnet.

Hand-rolled smoke and a fat moon
frame the return from reverie
as I, for a time, forget to strut and fret.

Jeffrey S. Lange (Runatyr)