What to expect-
Good camaraderie?
Meet new people?
Social butterflies?
Good tennis?
With high expectations
I arrive to
a long waiting list
to play-
at least a forty-five minute break.
No pizza yet
I'm hungry.
Only beer and silly chatter
to wile away the time.
Reflect and observe
That's ok.
What they do
I'm not really a part
of that though.
Do I wish I were?
Some kind of longing
But not really... Where's the pizza?
I've had no dinner.
And what about the tennis?
From what I understand
mind does not exist
at the same time though
these thoughts are spinning around
in this constantly
aging body of mind(e).
Habituality and neurosis
seem like permanent friends;
what strides I've made
on my particular path
are totally invisible.
Fortunately the originator
of these thoughts does not exist.
Dreaming of heights
Reality sometimes
Falls through the floor.
What else is there to say?
Funny, brown wooden structure
Chinese or Japanese in design,
Canadian flag fluttering high atop,
Is that your real allegiance?
Beautiful, stately trees
Sprinkled all about.
Grassy field surrounding you.
Incongruous in this place you are…
Tall apartments, busy streets.
This is the WestEnd,
Where memory serves
The action was.
What does that mean to you?
Maybe a stark reminder
Of times long past.
Women in long dresses
With petticoats.
Men with bowler hats
Handlebar moustaches, arm-bands and suspenders.
Children running, laughing, playing
Around your domain.
Picnic baskets bursting out
On blankets plaid and plain.
Warm, sunny days, soft sea breezes,
Majestic wooden houses, close-knit families.
Sunday outings, the band must have played.
Beyond my mind to feel it close.
Culture, generation gap
I don't know.
Today, what's it about?
Summer lovers making out surreptitiously.
Winos with their Muscatel, down and out.
Street kids seeking shelter
On a rainy night.
Drug pushers dealing life's emptiness.
A respite for the aged.
A place for memories to play again and again.
Space for the mind to relax,
To wander, to be deep in thought.
What's it about?
I really don't know.
*Brian Pollard, Canadian poet who was born in the province of Alberta. Teaches English language in the Vancouver Community College in B.C.