Читать книгу Pluviophile - Yusuf Saadi - Страница 10

We stapled your promise inside our eyelids; now we sleep to your image in tapered blazer and leather suitcase whispering, If you work hard you can have this. So we wake at seven. Cook lunch. Daub makeup on irises, stuff biceps with protein powder. When the Visa bill arrives, lock it in the mailbox until it growls so loud we can’t sleep. If there were a pill for hope each pharmacy would be sold out.

We patiently await our future. In the meantime, skimp on TTC fare when attendants aren’t looking, barely strong enough to push through turnstiles. Add another lie to resumes under receipts for arts degrees. Hungry until we’re nearly transparent. Bearing sisters’ hand-me-down dreams and inheriting gas at a $1.30 per litre.

Sometimes we wish we could curl (becoming as small as an Oxford comma) into a warm pothole on a busy street, live there as part of the city, regard the world between total eclipses cars cause as they drive by.

We’ve scoured wardrobes for soft cotton fabrics to touch against faces like surrogate mothers. Rubbed words together like flint for a day’s motivation. Alarm clocks have towered above watered-down sleeps. On rare occasions, we treat ourselves to fancy cups of coffee, dark chocolate, reveries. Writing poetry at night with the rust from our lives.