Caramel
Caramel
Two heads at a table
Bus on the old streets go by in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
I am poor – I do not live
In an architecturally beautiful
Neighbourhood
Where the brick facades
And decorative lintels
Shelter families sat on hardwood
Watching movies on big screens
Or enjoying good food at a big table, which
a loving father prepares
Together, with his family
And for his kids’ friends
As they gather on a Friday night
To laugh, talk and share,
Happily.
I pretend to live there in the rich houses,
With character, as the bus goes by in
New Edinburgh.
But I am poor – I have bought a cement condo
It is all I can afford.
And if you Google map/street-me
You’ll see it’s ugly and deplorable.
And the view is spectacular.
I can probably see more
Beyond, and above to the mountains
The stretch of Ottawa River to
Fortune
Parliament Hill
Little houses
lit up in Overbook
Where the rockstar families
Moved to.
But what is it all worth when
A view can’t be shared
And you console yourself with things like
“at least I have eyes
and legs!”
until I fall sick, that is,
or end up in a wheelchair?
Milan Kundera says the person who wishes to move
Is not a happy person.
I realized that in my flat
In Paris,
I had it all!
And yet I still questioned
Is it sudden death from a leap from the 4th floor?
Jane Birkin’s daughter did it.
Two heads at a table
Bus on the old streets go by in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
You would once have seen me
In the dim light from soft flea-market
Mismatched lampshades, glowing
Peacefully in my cabin
If you drove along a quiet road
Connecting Lanark
To Highway 7.
I was not alone –
I had frogs, earwigs, bats and spiders
Walleye, birds, geese and crackles
From a campfire.
A cousin playing Kathleen Edwards’
“Sure As Shit” filled our dusk
While we heated water
To wash our cottage dishes.
I am not cosmopolitan.
But I would choose a big city
In which to be anonymous.
I want sweetest remoteness
To feel enveloped by a Universe.
How is it —
How do we become —
Why can it be —
That we are more lonely around people
And houses
In cities
Where technology has replaced delivery
Of chicken noodle soup from a friend
When you’re sick
With
Nothing…
See, this is where you —
Having sat around tables
with a thousand candles,
photo from outside the
home showing
your festive faces lit,
Could tell me to
“Get a grip.”
Do we all think
Some other place will make us happy
And how do we go about
Finding it?
Is it in Paris?
Perhaps if it were available,
It’d be another planet?
No: because people don’t exist there
And regardless of the block,
The house or the bay,
We are looking for someone
With whom to spend our days
And our nights after supper
Like they do in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
© Sylvie Hill 2014