You might think I’ve gone mad.
You would be of course right.
What she did to me
in those three flashbacks
altered forever my world.
The first was on the steps
of the Bank of Montreal.
It was a strange day
bright with small clouds’
shadows sparse and in discord.
It looked like a deliberate
black and white movie set.
I passed her by.
She stood in a shaft of light
illuminating her from within.
In delay, I recalled
those smiling, smoky eyes
and rivulets of honey hair
parted in the middle,
precise waves, just so falling.
I thought of a painting
by Ferdinand Leger, or even
Botticelli, if he ever painted Eve.
I kept on my way. After all,
she was only selling.
Doctors without borders, I believe,
ironic, the perfect picture
of youth and exotic adventure.
The rest of the day I thought
of her subliminal impact.
The second time was at the entrance
of that horrendous Bay Mall
with its stale air of leather
and perfume of the avid spender.
In contrast, in simplicity and tact,
she pleaded to save the World
or even a single child.
If I had stopped, I would have gone on
about the futility of
whatever (including my) affair.
Shamelessly, I would have said
that to the contrary,
I now welcome the demise of men.
That I dream of a world of animals,
of natural change, with no ruler and no pen.
Inspired, or more precisely,
completely intoxicated,
I sat down to write, no choice,
my hand shaking for a change.
I folded the paper in four.
The rest of the week, feverish,
I walked all over downtown,
looking for and not finding her.
carrying all the while that paper.
I said “Please God, let me give it!”
And then, “No, you better not!”
and such nonsense silly games.
As time went by, instead of giving up
I redoubled my effort
widening up my search.
Walking up Yates towards home,
and I was still resolute, I saw
two vague shapes in red
without my glasses.
I instantly knew it was her.
My heart began to fasten.
As I drew near, I could hardly breath.
She was there with a friend
who zoomed in on me. I walked passed,
and said “I have something.”
They were both bouncing
like cartoon characters.
“What?” they said “What?”,
both their eyes following my hand.
I looked into her eyes.
But I had to look away,
it felt like a heart attack.
I mumbled “little poem”
and gave it and quickly drew away.
I thought I heard her run after me,
but it wasn’t so, obviously.
Then I thought maybe she thinks
that I am a pervert?
The words can be taken
in a number of directions.
Also I thought of the way
I was dressed. “Good God! all in black!”
And I had handed her the note
with my leather gloves on!
I was stuck at a red light.
I could feel her glancing
from the paper to my back,
and back to those dreadful,
painful, heartfelt rhymes.
A broken man in flight.
Here I am again,
walking those same streets,
trying to explain, in vain,
to me, and to Eve, that the words
meant only..
jam09
