April 9

Moving at walking pace you only capture
a two-second glance between eye blinks:
Warmer trays turn barricades a ghostly shade
as mopping girl’s ponytail, wrung tight,
whips rhythmically to anonymous FM tunes
while mother’s unwavering stare
nestles tiredly on the doorway
only four metres away.

A few cloudy seconds to create that
Sharp tableaux, not easily erased.
Immigrant dreams flat-packed, reformed,
boxed in again by the simple mathematics of
space and distance:
square feet, now, not miles.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s