|A Mourning of Blown Chances.|
I commit the memory to paper,
and these marks commit the moment
to my mind; this flat-light image of a rotund
Southern-European man in a tall, blue felt hat
screaming "tourist", grinning at his map book as if
simply being here and now is
enough to make his life;
the chinese man crossing the square,
(a square, what a fucking joke.
It's hardly Florence or Rome,)
unreasonably pleased with his task
of carrying four coffees to friends or family
waiting in the eleven am queues outside the half-price
ticket box (that's not true - I didn't see where he was going);
the giggling girls with fluffy alien antlers,
a youthful parody of countless hen nights, embracing the same
freedom that left me with a flat-light image of a dog
running past that "one-day" girl, and the tramp
that chased it falling over her on the day
I lost my virginity, the day I'd made
sure hers would be someone elses.
The grinning Greek in the hat is gone;
no-one replaces him for a while.
The girls scream,
take photographs and leave. I wish
I had done that. I wish
I had a photograph of her and that dog
and that tramp, so I could overdevelop it,
or likely use a more conventional means
of leaving it behind me, lost and forgotten
and still young.
Now though, I sit in the square,
and lift my feet only
for the neon
blowing dead leaves into
a single, hopeful pile.
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