Photo by David Reevely (borrowed from Flickr)
Impressions
I can't remember
Who worked the pumps
At that gas station
On the Eskasoni Road,
But I can taste their
Orange-pineapple ice-cream
Like it was yesterday.
I can't envision
A single one
Called MacAdam
On that farm up the hill
But I remember
Cuddly kittens in the barn
Sticky-sweet fresh cows' milk.
I don't know who
Was there that summer
But I can feel
The chilly outhouse hole
Beneath my bottom
See the fireflies
Dancing me back to bed.
I can't retrace the paces
To that folk dance
We mastered
At St. F's school,
But still I see the red-wool
Ribbon pulling back my hair
The long, plaid peasant-dress.
I don't know
Who checked us out
At the clean green, grocery-store,
But I can feel my leotards slip
On the shiny, stiff
Gold, plastic horse
Hear the nickel-clink.
I can't resurrect
The old man’s face again
Down eastward
On that 1960s train
But I can hear his accent
Inquiring of me,
"Parlez-vous Francais"?
I've packed away
Those long-dead kisses
From men and boys-gone-by
Lips soon forget
But I yet inhale
The pungency of
Jovan Musk and Brut.
I've no clue to
The pigment of their eyes
Guitar-toting guys
On Ingonish beach,
But still they come to mind
Each time I hear
Hotel California.
But My Dearest
One,
Each time
You walk out the door
Of my life
Every single day
Your face remains
Indelibly traced
On the walls of my mind.
Kathleen Mortensen ©2008
