for Winnipeg
Every morning, it’s the same thing: east
of where she wants to be.
She picks herself up from the road,
shakes the rust from her eyes, the old
tires and patio chairs from her hair,
and makes her way west again. She starts
off strong enough, like a rock pine
cutting through a stampede.
But by midday, her throat
is as parched as a storm canal
blazing with crickets; and the evening
shade, in the bones of all the rocking chairs,
aches within. Just the thought
of that first breeze through her
long prairie grass, brings on the shivers
of late afternoon. By nightfall,
curtains are flowing
from her bedroom windows, lighting
bathes her wooden balconies in white
and the rain and floodwaters
begin to gather in the potholes
along Maryland Street: little cups
offered to her lips
in consolation.
copyright 2006 Rocco de Giacomo
As appeared in Prism International, Vol. 45 No.1, 2006
and the collection Catching Dawn’s Breath (LyricalMyrical Press, Toronto)