At Bridge 87
A hazy poem beside Manchester’s Rochdale Canal, exploring love, loss, altered perception, memory and the lingering ache of letting go.
Alone at Bridge 87,
and the sun beams down
on transparent,
metallic green demoiselles
hovering over green frogbits
that look like continents.
I’m shuckling –
Latest Trends on my phone,
a joint of skunk
in my right hand,
thinking of last night’s
Meraki love –
eyes wide shut,
but mind jarred open.
She’s out of my life.
She’s out of my life.
I’m hearing
Love’s not a possession.
Am I really
an ultracrepidarian?
“Is this your playlist?”
I ask the Bangladeshi taxi driver.
“Yes, I’m chillin’.”
He’s driving so fast.
It’s out of my hands.
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