BY SHEILA HORNE
Copyright is held by the author.
I opened the door. You leaned against the jamb.
Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde in one hand,
a chunk of hash in the other. I should have told you
we could never be, but you smiled like a vagabond
from somewhere in the ether and it all seemed
so romantic and I didn’t want it to end. So, I
bussed north with you, guzzled cheap wine with you,
swam with you and hitched a ride back — alone.
The next time we met, you had a relationship
you didn’t want, a tattoo I frowned on and
a Harley Davidson you said saved your soul.
I knew we could never be, not because I had changed,
or your cursed life lurking behind the scenes
would take centre stage. Or I loved him more than I
loved you. It wasn’t devious or jive talk, like you implied.
It was simple — you yelled the F word in front of children
skipping rope on the bridge.