Poetry
Felix Thursday
Requiem for Miner Street Bakery
I returned to the roof of the bakery
which is no longer a bakery.
Where she and I spent wintertime,
skipping high school dances and
balancing on its scalene arches,
engulfed by the scent of tar and donuts.
At midnight the miniature bustle began.
Brigades of die-cast cars honking horns
flashing their high-beams beneath us until
they were gone, in a collective instant,
like a cheap fireworks display.
And the street returned to its solemnity,
stoically immersed in itself with its
sad facade of empty shops and apartments.
And I returned to the stars,
and the cold tips of her fingers.
The bakery has been closed now for years,
another antiquated thing.
But vodka and nostalgia compelled me
to go back to the top of the building.
I brought Mark, still struggling to kick
the chemical that killed his poetry,
and a dryad-type new girl, Karie.
It was no longer necessary
to climb stealthily up the metal stairs.
No lights were on below,
the back entry was a pool of shadows.
But we were silent anyway,
trying to suppress our giggles
as if we were listening to
a stranger's obituary.
On the roof Mark found that he
had run out of walls to climb,
and this new girl had me hold
on to her legs while she lay
suspended with her head down
over the ledge.
We laughed as we watched
a police car spotlight roam corners
and down alleys, searching for
something suspicious
in one of the shadows,
a suspect, we guessed,
or maybe an Indian hiding
behind a rock with a rifle.
We had 'em ambushed!
If we really wanted to.
And I thought of her,
under other stars with other lovers.
And us on our stronghold
guarding unreality.
