Keychain

A. CAGES

Mrs. Anderson woke that Sunday morning
and decided to ruffle some feathers, wearing
a cheap, reductive wool coat and sandals
broken round the sole. She marched toward the door,
motioning for Daniel to turn the key,
turn the key Daniel, turn it,
and call the car,
my shoes are just shoes, Daniel,
there is nothing left to give:
for all my secrets, and all my sweat,
there is nothing left to give.

She sent the letter in the mail, to him,
name and regiment known, yet forgotten,
signed her name in runny ink, hoping
the stamp would stick, and licking the seal.
She turned her back along the wall, hiding,
sensing the smoke come barrelling down the street,
went up the hill and hid behind the drying sheet.

When Gilgamesh died on King William St.,
a few feet from the saloon,
three bullets placed in his chest,
we panicked, but didn’t cry,
for there is always another Gilgamesh,
lying beneath the bridge, haunting the rocks,
staring down the Hamilton city bus.

Cracked roads. Bumpy trails. 
Ticks and fleas sucking blood from arms and legs,
exposed yet joyous, cooking in the afternoon sun,
while the lawnmower jettisons dirt and mud and shit
’round the alleyway corner, hitting windows and waking those
deep within a summer sleep.

We saw the setting sun weep.

We wished it was the end of it,

but grass goes on to creep.

“I couldn’t have wished for a better day.”
                 “Because the day is all we had.”

When someone walks down the road,
Turning the corner at Main and Emerson,
Are they looking at you through the glass?
Or just admiring their reflection as they pass?

“Janis Joplin was 25 when she performed ‘Ball and Chain’ at
Woodstock.”

“Where were you when the tower fell?”

When the scene finally cleared, 
the neighbours beneath the hill could only gawk at the young, blonde-haired, barefooted
widow making her way down the winding road, carrying nothing but a carpet.

They said she laughed a laugh—but not one of menace or impurity, but a healthy
laugh—the kind of laugh that only comes about when something finally goes your way.

“And Rosy was trying to explain…”

One ladle, two ladle, three ladle, four,
I can hear somebody knocking on the door. 
One step, two step, three step, four,
I can hear somebody knocking on the door. 
Five step, six step, seven step, eight,
I know who the person is that you really hate. 
Nine step, ten step, eight step, nine,
I wish the hourglass wasn’t really mine.

I suppose it has a certain, eh, je ne sais quoi?
A kind of murky intensity, a sort of, eh,
How you say, stupidity?
It was over before it started, dear,
It was over before it even started. 
But, you know, that’s how these things work:
they write, they wonder, they wish, and they die.

If anything were even true about this, why would we do it?

Somebody has an answer, dear, somebody does. 
I know, for certain, because I spoke to Mrs. Anderson
(God help her with those ghastly shoes)
And she said yes, Daniel, yes,
There is something about this piece that rings a certain bell,
Or lights a certain lamp,
Or, eh, calls a certain question. 
Let me try and find it, dear,
Please, do let me try. 
I want to think about time myself,
The time that runs me dry.