Here’s another new poem in progress, and, perhaps not surprisingly: another Halifax-area park touched upon.
THERE IS AN OLD BUNKER WE’VE OFTEN WALKED PAST
– Point Pleasant Park – Halifax, NS
and we know mistakes, no doubt, have been made. keys
misplaced; vows bent, and then broken. error’s often
compounded, we know. but this: this just has to be the last
mortgage of outrageous beauty come, finally, unavoidably
due. come undone, the drab, dun 3-2-1 of this old
bunker’s concrete is punch-drunk and scurvied,
slumptumbled-cum-crumbled about; a mumbled gravel
antipathy fallen in on itself. toothless recrimination, its
door’s breath’s all cold-coffeed: rusted hinge and stale piss.
but on each morning walk, on each grudging
dawn jog, we concede – we can’t miss – the stark, simple
fact of this very junked tonnage at all, its prosaic avowal of
the weathers of burden. how it’s stayed, how it stays;
diminished, no doubt, but still. staid.