To Quebec City

The content of this poem is less important than the form; consider word sounds and rhythms.

Would I return if I could
to that nervous neighbourhood?

Find that time’s not been kind
to that naïve state of mind?

Painful as those late grade eight days may remain
I wouldn’t hesitate (am I insane?)

As bad as I can have had it,

Sitting like a misfit on that trip
A la belle province

Wet with sweat, letting the rest get the better of me,

Dumbstruck with lust on the back of a bus,
runnin’ outta luck,
surrounded all around
and ground down
on the Greyhound out of town.

Wondering: What if I’m nothin but
a shmuck with cluttered luggage
loving like a monk does
or a chump in a romantic slump?

 

Miserable in the middle of an invisible divide
all I needed was time
in my mind I might confide �"
ain’t it such a crime to just be shy?

I didn’t know way back then
I had such potential even when
I couldn’t understand
why I shook when she gave her hand.

Emotionally spent
when I caught her scent
like innocent incense
I still wonder where it went.

What a curse her curves served
to this awkward nerd.

Man do I want to get back
to idly chatting on the steps of Frontenac,
and chasing her down the plains of Abraham.
I shouldn’t complain, but here I am.

 

Stranded in the dark, there we were
hot and tired, immature,
a stalled coach, us kids unsure
if we’d ever make it home.

Hold on and try not to go alone.

You probably knew, no need to
go back, it was fine for you

But me, I got regrets I can’t forget
and I ain’t lived ‘em down yet.

Author's Note

Yet another rumination on immature love and infatuation, you must know my hang-ups pretty well by now if you've been reading.