by Chris Valliancourt
The lift and strain of traffic as it slides
down cool November streets.
A hustle and bustle, hurly-burly, ingested
kind of day.
A distinct flavour of of washing soap
faded in my mind.
Movement to the left, movement
to the right. Tossing my arm out
like a military no-mind I stomp
through the blaze of the grey.
“I will not be shouted at!
I will not be ignored”
Dead brown grass blowing like
spiders weaving insect repellent
parading on the ground.
The sound of shuffling feet echoes
like ice picks in my ears.
Floating in mid-sentence, I only
speak when I am inclined.
“I’m no longer inclined to want
to share with you.
I am no longer interested
in conforming to the norm.”
Saws are buzzing angrily as
they work to take the trees away.
Flies hide like lepers in the
dung hills of their alarm.
November came complete
with a whimper, a strangling
sort of no nonsense vowels.
Inside, the cough drop melts as
it slides down my throat.
I’m prisoner and jailer,
executioner and saviour.
“I’m not to be hurt.
I’m not to be insulted.”
Closing coat around emancipation.
Shutting mind to ulterior motives.
Outside the frolicsome emptiness
motivates another crowd to survive.
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