There was the sound of bicycles fluttering by
before you disappeared again.
There it is: Nothing but the sound of bicycles
and the wake they cause in the air around me,

nothing but the print of that dress I never wore for you.

Your promise, a flag, catching in the wind of it
no one pledging their allegiances but me.
At that, mine is fledgling
awaiting your return.

There is a crack on the cement where I stand,
staring out past the mango tree-campaign for summer.
Hand-to-forehead, a visor for the sun,
there is no sign of you.
A breeze brings my skirt above my thighs as I am waiting,
but I am standing still with heavy sigh.

You've never listened when I say,
"Your foreign hand-signals have caused the ruin of it all,"
nor did you care past the white line
of a bicycle lane.

It will be three more days until I take your call,
and then we will have to wait until Toronto.

04/10/2010

Posted on 04/10/2010
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