By E.G.N. Lafleur
with apologies to T.S. Eliot
As figurines wading neck deep in holly,
As lovers
spilling out of bars on College Street to track off into the separate night,
baking mince enriched with tangerine and trapping each other against the
folding countertop.
They get off the streetcar
conspiratorial, exchanging
loving, mocking glances.
They wonder, what am I doing
here, doing this,
who do I think I am,
does he think he is?
and are we stumbling towards a holy place or
towards disaster?
what about our imprudent grasping after happiness makes us wise, they will ask
when this story is over.
but we do not know how or where or when that will come to pass – we do not know if
it will be over and whether they will be able to ask at all.
They sing and walk, sing and walk,
sing and
walk, and it doesn’t snow but rain
as they talk of their homes.
E.G.N. Lafleur is a new poet living in London, Ontario. She has been published in Feed Lit Mag, Pinhole Poetry, Wrongdoing Mag, and Deathcap. She writes to work out the questions raised in her academic work on medieval English history and literature. When she is not busy as social services worker, she fosters cats and lives on Twitter: @egnlafleur.
