On Meeting You from Evening Class
It was all that I could be; listless, corroding, boneless,
in the apron of our commentary moon. Once young,
these copper-coloured streets now belaboured by the chorus
that had formed them with their verse, now pastures old,
sad but charming in delinquency. Your pallid charm
that sat you beleaguered on the Synagogue step; the smile,
loose and beat up from chasing that ever more bilious smile;
eyes chipped like aunt’s china, unafraid to be boneless;
your skin, like Reason’s wine, neglected Mother Nature’s charm.
You squat, brittle knees tucked up, as warm as a feral’s young,
beneath your reverend chin. The vigil of the beacon; old
stories I have heard, ballads crawling kingsnake, chorus
lying rested in the dirt. But you seem to wake the chorus,
shining in the lamplight, forcing passers-by to smile
with lips blistered and spent, curling in denial of old
pricked backs and unvented spleens. Unafraid to be boneless,
I watch you from beneath the casted elbow of a hero, young
forever in his form, solid in his beliefs and his charm.
The distances spit between us, exhausted effort as they charm
my fetid boots to cross past Charon, encouraged by the chorus
of the cobbles, to pitch myself beside you. When young
I would have stuttered, pilloried my nerve, until your smile
reminded me of how it felt to be scarred rather than boneless,
unafraid to be without everything but you. Now old,
I must admit my overcoat hides more than just skin from old
foes and debt collectors. Your hand, itself a charm,
rests icy on my wrist – thick beside the boneless
breeze that carries tears into my eyes. You speak the chorus
of a requiem in verse that paints a blackness on your smile.
Gruff clouds belch timpani upon the sidewalk, a sound so young
I cannot spare the horses of my sadness, eternally young
in their athletic gambol. My lips feel craven, my heart old,
as I cannot bare to tell you from behind this infant smile
that I loved you as a stranger, something of lonely charm
helped me desire you as a stranger; some rotten spell made a chorus
of the chant that guided life beyond the statue to the boneless.
I can see wrapped in morning smile, your face as bright and young
as dawn. You stretch with boneless rigour, the bed sheets fold and slither, old
melodies play card games on the decking, charm mocks the stranger of the chorus.