Andy Schildroth

Untitled

I’m still looking twice at bus stops,
Hoping to see the face on a train;
The old familiar with a new refrain,
But there’s no going back.

Proud to have put together a real day,
Just like everyone else;
Living like everyone else,
Dying in ignominy.

There’s no special place here,
Not even for one good hour;
Clutching the dry cup while sour,
Then the tension slides away.

Just another wave breaking loose,
Over the darkened, corroded separator;
Standing against the narrator,
Whose predictable lines are now absent.

So you wait like any other jerk,
Except for your five to ten served;
Getting what you deserved,
As you clutch at tangible worth.

So you’re out of the shadow,
Looking sick in the sun;
But not yet done,
Back again, though you look so pale in the sun.


Candian Winter

The bellowing begins as the exhaust puffs
And you feel the four walls around you close in
As the radio babbles on about interior décor,
Jailbreaks of murderers,
As well as the latest in gourmet foods, fashionable baby clothes, and ergonomic seating.
And everywhere around you looks so good and free.
Even if its 40 below out there
With clean snow,
Crisp air,
And a strange absence of a rambling humanity
Due to the cold you can’t feel.

A strange monotony sets in
Parochialisms become life, not just an utterance.
You watch is set to the beat of the traffic, of the warmth
From bubble to bubble you surf
Never staying long in the cold
Where you’re brain becomes a frozen block,
Unseeing, you race to the safety and confinement of the warmth.
Ah Canadians
We’ll never cause a fuss in the deep, thick winter.

"A bit different, this was sent via facebook, received at my quasi-boyfriend's house, better than an offer to rent a limousine. I love the moment of getting beyond the surface level day to day chatter bullshit. Even though I am the occasional queen of nothingness, and chatterboxery...this inbox pleasantry was a treat"