Confessions of a self-confessed walker
I’ll always say no if you offer me a lift.
I’ll walk even if it’s pouring and street sewers
are throwing up grey sewage and mud rivers are forming,
flowing in torrents from the mountains above.
Even if I’m only wearing a strapless summer
dress and my winter boots become two water wells
and leaves from trees shake their fleeting beads on me,
like a dog shaking trying to dry itself. Even when
cars water-ski puddles, flailing sheets of rain at everyone’s
feet and shop windows, like blurred faces, flick slippery colours
at shoppers burdened with bags and tugged by the wind.
Even when the planks left by builders become uncertain bridges
and the vendors’ cries become one perpendicular drip
selling verdant rain hats and capes. And the last seagulls swoop
at crowds elated by their scooping swing. And everyone is late.
I’ll walk even when I have no destination, no claims to make,
nothing to conquer. I’ll walk, even with a soaking boneless heart.
