Transition: Journal Collection - Exhibit B

A neon sign on any structure      
betrays to time this island harbor town      
where I'd swear      
I should see Sunday's Coldblood horses      
pulling their charges up Main Street hill      
to the Round Church at the top      
                                        - but still      
the brazen neon tells me      
its hotel is serving lunch      
there's an hour left to bleed and      
life needs more defining strokes      
     
The window table has it good.      
Drinks spilled on it every night      
have honed its varnished palate and      
                                             - it waits      
as firelight catches curves and cuts of glass      
from underneath      
expensive whiskies lined high up and proud      
half empty soldiers      
throwing shapes on warm wood walls -      
but tourist season's ending.      
     
This notebook seems to favour      
plotting more than plans, I'd say:      
pinning it to memory      
before new colours cover over      
a life I couldn't wear      
with failures that can stay      
wadded in a West End corner      
I'll lay Atlantic air to sleep      
planting my most recent past    
in this melting hotel window view     
     
looking out over mews and grey slate roofs      
past where the concrete dock drops dead      
saluting, rigidly, well worked boats      
that rock themselves to sleep      
on the water's oldest song -      
while tucked in, huddled close in cliques      
lighter pampered pets      
hold anchor for their jockeys.      
     
A white woman trills      
"ain't no sunshine..."      
quietly over the radio      
and I cringe at her nerve:      
That she could think      
her tinny voice deserved      
to don another's soul      
or substance.