Marginalia

In my dream I am lawless

A teenager loose in the night

Tagging, thieving or both

Clubs spilling the last partiers into the street

I climb onto my longboard lying flat

Skeleton style, like in the Winter Olympics

My course a cobbled rainslicked street

Ahead two women are walking

One short, one tall

The tall one is Florence Welch

Dressed in white fur, arctic fox or ermine like some Nordic goddess

She hears the clatter of my wheels

Half turns, reaching out a hand

Which I grab briefly to propel myself to greater speed

Thanks ladies, I cry as I fly past them

Wheels chattering on the glistening roadway

I gain speed

But not enough velocity to achieve maximum maneuverability

Headlights overtake me from behind

I am too far into the centre of the lane

I can’t move to the edge

I have forgotten to live in the margins

It gets brighter

Before it ends

Abruptly

 

 

David Trudel  © 2013

 

 

Florence

Relentlessly, her voice powers up and down arpeggios and scales

Like a Lambo on the autobahn or a Tesla on full charge

Providing some inner warmth

Against a thin winter’s day insipid chill

Bolstered by plucked accompaniment

Warm as a wainscoted room filled with all of Jane Austin’s heroines

Harps are evocative that way

Contrapuntal to fluid crescendos

A spring tonic of her golden voice powers synapses to fire

Making it easy to climb on for a velvet ride

A smile lights up my face

But my ears are burning

In a conflagration of auditory delight

 

 

David Trudel  © 2013