Sunday Poems XXVIII

I moved into a new apartment at the end of December. I adore it. The location is almost exactly ideal, the space is big and I have a bathtub in the house for the first time in five years. It’s got all of my books in it. I can stand on my balcony in the morning sun with a cup of tea and admire the park across the street and the apartment building where my friend Carolyn lives off in the distance, one of the tallest buildings in the area.

There’s no cat though. One of my roomamtes has allergies. So no cat. I’m not sure how to replace that feeling or substitute something in. I wish there were someting nosing at my ankles while I were cooking dinners. A mewling reminder of warmth. A consistant carething. A companion. An entity without a shared language to engage in a struggle at understanding with. Something to make me watch my step.

Much of our fantasies tend to be about freedom. Freedom is lonely, I prefer to think about control. Control is never complete. Control is knowing what we can affect, where we can be deliberate, and where we shrug or defer. The joy of control is provided for by the presence of an experience of a lack of control.

Sundays can be a nice day to sweep out the fireplace. Accumulated soot included the following sources: the copy of the autobiography of disgraced national radio host who recently was found not guilty of four counts of assault which burned for about 20 minutes before it became nothing, the piece of wood which had the name of a local restaurant scrawled on it for some reason, and the KFC flyer which promoted a package called Chick’N’Share. Sweeping the ashes off the steel edge of the fireplace mostly smears a dark grey colour around and more of it falls on the floor than back into the fireplace. Ash defying your lifelong experiences of physics. Below is a poem. If you’d like, you could copy it out on a piece of paper and then toss the page into the fireplace. As always, I’m here if you need to talk. Have a great week, everybody.


for our shoes

industrial accidents
and hope.

a page of numbers,
big long stretches.

reaching for the sky and brushing it
with your fingertips.

in the sun
on the train tracks.

i relaxed for a moment.

errands to run.

she called me;
i picked up the phone.

focusing for a moment.

moving tables in the coffee shop.

transcribing recordings
for our lips
our perfect morning
our perfect afternoon
our perfect day.

taking up room
where there aren’t any dreams.

popping the keys.

when we talk our handheld devices
make clicking noises to each other.

i loosen my hands
and put them in your bag.

a parting gift,
i won’t need them
for a bit.

sometimes it’s perfect.


Originally published April 17, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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