Day 3: Runner
who can remember the point? it is the name
that eludes me, memory siding with musqueam
unconcerned with which british subject far from home
dabbed this bit of geography with his tag; the point is
all beacon, named or not. runners pass by, inbound
outbound, rotationally correct. every one who passes
reminds me of his long sleeved blue shirt
square-knuckled hands swinging, distance-eating stride
he probably still has that way of ducking his head
to compensate for tough terrain. stanley park eases
around along coal harbour, tide low enough for
muddy sand, exhalation of shelled life
now above surface, the city in view.
he used to run this well-worn way and meet
men of the city, whose eyes assessed
his angles and youth, hungry.
he loved stanley park more, he said, tucking
his chin, after his step-dad. of course, clean sea
wind, cedar scented paths. the thing,
he said, chin up again, is, those men
offered me their numbers. sometimes
like now, every runner reminds me of him
chin down, chin up, eyes far as the sea
steady swing, muscled thighs.
shelled life exhales muddy breath.
sometimes, these young men pass