By the twin dogs of harbour park
By the twin dogs of harbour park,
first dates begin, sweat beads
greeting under meticulously gelled
hair, stretched across the shaded bench,
watching yachts glide across the still
Atlantic. Strangers breathing the summer
breeze lounge around — wonder if they
hear the continuous tapping of fingers on
my thighs? Across downtown, two pairs
of feet trot, shoe kissing gravel, figuring
where North was, ending up at an Irish
pub, to drink rhum and split a platter
of chicken tenders and fries.
When the bill’s been halved,
the fountains of Bannerman
call, the broken middle inciting
the mutual understanding of broken down
families, unattainable
dreams, and the failure of
love and life, two broken
souls desperate to be fixed.
Circling to the harbour park,
we lay on concrete side
by side, Nic Chagall sweetly
playing from a cellphone,
contemplating the clouded
sky: “Starless,” I begin.
“They’re hiding behind
the clouds,” he says.
“Damn,” I reply. “Damn clouds.”
I wait for the song to be over,
or for the bus to arrive, willing
the pulses to quicken or slow,
blood to feel, yet ending up
at that make-or-break point after five
hours of no longer being lonely, thanking
him for waiting, him thanking me for
the company — but of course, since
I’m all sorts of wonderful, I blurt out
“Well, this is awkward” — then he laughs
and taps me on the shoulder goodbye.
His red backpack was walking home
meeting the yellow lights of
my incoming bus, shrinking second
by second until I flick my cigarette
and board the bus.
By the twin dogs of harbour park,
first dates begin. This is also
where some of them end.
