You return to that sleepy little city
that once was your home, that you
still adore more than any other,
before or since. Not your birth-
place, but hearts make choices.
Some things finish, don’t quite end.
Quiet streets much the same,
much altered. Industrial area along
the river became townhouses and
cafes but maze-like bookshop
in the centre is gone, historic post
office with a phallic clock tower
became a tourist info hub.
There, but not. You once knew all
one-way streets would encounter
familiar faces on route to bank
but now there are no friendly faces
and the bank is gone. Moved?
Died? Became unrecognisable,
unlike unchanging you?
And about the time you start to accept
you are a sentimental fool to think
you could just return to whatever
it was you thought you were missing,
there’s some old neighbour who looks
twice, stops, recognises you.
With brightly coloured hair and trendy
glasses, you would not have known her
but with prompting your confusion
turns into unproportional delight
and though you do no such thing,
you must resist the urge to embrace,
possibly kiss her on both of those
peachy old cheeks.
____________________________________________________________________Past Imperfect
by Allan Lake
Bio:Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada, now living in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled ‘My Photos of Sicily’, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.
