Even the trees have some disquiet.
At the slightest disturbance, our dog
takes shelter, growling under my desk.
Circumstances close in. It’s as if,
in that downtown apartment,
the dripping geyser forewarned
apocalypse – or the afternoon music,
blaring out from some distant radio,
was soundtracking a situation
that I would never be able to grasp.
You can see the wood for the trees,
if you choose to – but that’s not
what I’ve been told and told again.
In the shadows of trees in the park,
we've found some space where,
flipping off caps from bottles of cider,
we can talk. Elsewhere, over the city,
the planes fly in and tomorrow
another bunch of people will be here.
The trams ruck and fret across old lines.
Clutching the handrail down into the metro,
I’m pretending there’s been no change.
At the ticket machine, there isn’t.
I bob and weave my barcode at the reader
and then take myself back up to the street.
I can walk home from here and count
the trees which unwittingly punctuate
the journey from downtown to home.
