by Nicole Melanson

All the buildings are in bloom
now the sun stays open
longer than the workday.
At sidewalk cafés,
the London lovelies diet,
their cigarettes garnishing
lakes of romaine. Knives cross,
the latest fashion from Milan.

Talk is cheap—
I should do some shopping. Instead,
I’m calling tails and turning heads,
a brick wall blowing down the street.

Then: taxi / turtle…a stencilled sign.
The door crawls to the end of its leash,
my signature chained to the clipboard.

Twelve mistakes in the waiting room
magazines: If you cant take a holiday,
take a kip. Paris cost extra at weekends.
It’s winter in Austalia…

What a vacant virtue, patience.
Better spent
on thicker skin,
bones rearranged
for makeshift shelving.

But the architecture comes undone.

My blood-hoarding body sees red.

A voice warns: Mind
the gap.