poetry AIRPORT BUS by Rose Hunter Telling you that is like I am on the airport bus, unable to muster up anything for the city I am leaving so irrevocably. I try cadging, and threats, but can’t seem to mean them. Yes, there’s my favorite restaurant, and the CN Tower I went to once in ten years—so what? And this street corner where I waited for the bus in the snow, to go back to that walk-up at King and Dufferin, and later there was the shiny apartment with the cuirass in the lobby, and no heating breakdowns, and without the mold with its black-toothed grip on the grouting. Yet—if only I could go back—I packed up that apartment, yes,
I threw away my belongings; so what? The plane can be missed. This bad idea that occurred after another bad idea and metastasized into this: Before the Gardner Expressway, or even in one of the blue chairs in the departure lounge, that’s when I could have gone back. But not
now. Now I can only say to you: That was my life and I lived it but now it’s over. And now this sentence makes no difference to you, now.
SHREDDED TIRE by Rose Hunter Snagged on a cactus, exposed throat
gaping at its own charred and beaten
edges—like many of us it was spun until it burst
and there was no use for it after that. This one, at least,
I’m going to say, is glad to have escaped a watered-down retirement
as a birdbath, garden decoration or plant box with half a pound of seed
potatoes, and is proud, also to have gone out like it did,
and so remains, buckled in its bow long after
the show has ended.
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