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

 

 

Blackened

First you see them as hints

They come into closer view

And you think roadkill corpses

But it’s really just another exploded tire

Kind of like online posts

Lumbering 18 wheelers who occasionally let one loose

Passing gassilly

Passing gas silly

Leaving a blackened remembrance of your passing

On the littered roadside

Blown, literally

Living on as scattered bits of used to be

Souvenirs of unfortunately

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2013