Paradise Street - a poem

Voices arc the street –
electric sparks
blue - too blue - against this sky
and day smirks
balanced on the white-glossed sill

waiting

the confession loiters low at the
window
curtained for a moment before

riding
on the rolling wave of engines
clattering shakes of buses pressed to full with
faces
mouthing

rising
on the tightly
plucked out song of birds
all praising now and now
as if it mattered

gliding
far from her - this room - this window
this open street
of Tuesdays - Thursdays -
strung out flags of welcome
red with celebration

but not for her

she curls against it -
lets the sting invade
and burn its way
to the root
then pinnacle
of her –
to cauterise the almost-longing
that she felt
but couldn’t keep
couldn’t save
couldn’t allow –

there isn’t enough day
isn’t enough