Crossing Elderslie Street, framed in flowers, February Sky

He strides, diesel-grey booted,
snuggly fitting jeans,
the blue-eyed boy.

His face, half-serious, half-whimsical, 
takes it all in, half-loves, half-hates it all:
detritus in the street 
back passages, and yes
all of that human dirt.

He’s ageless 
about how he might frame the scene
between the pages of his unruled 

He spreads his fingers
magpie’s wingtips
counting syllables
beats to a bar or
items on a to-do list

Right here
he feels quite comfortable; 
his girl, dressed in her orange 
snug, winter coat
with monkeys at her side.

He thinks 
he’ll paint
that sky
one day
he’ll paint
the glass
and textures of the rain.

He paints me 
with his pen,
I pen his
outline in this notepad
tip to tip
silvered in gold
the facets of
our mirror-image world.

© 2023 All Rights Reserved.

T.M.P.I.R. with thanks for all your love and care.

– I.W. x

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