The Last Day.

On the last day,

It rained.

So much, the storm

drains ran like a creek.

 

When they rushed for the taxi,

Her foot slipped,

Submerged in murky rapids.

In the cab, she wrung out her sock.

 

“This is what te olden days

would have been like,” she said.

“The wife rinsing her socks;

cold feet.”

 

“I have cold feet too,” he said.

“And hands.”

 

She grabbed them; large,

comforting, gentle,

his extremeties dry and chilly

like autumn branches.

She tried to massage warmth

into them.

 

The taxi took them to

Commerical Drive. People stood around

talking, a cluster of umbrellas sparkling

with raindrops.

 

Still hand in hand,

They raced for the Skytrain and

hopped on, without a destinatiion in mind.

 

A hockey game just finished.

The train was dotted with blue and green.

The team lost in a shootout, which silenced

the madding crowd.

 

They were standing among

bodies, holding rubber stirrupts,

motion rocking them,

unplanting rooted sopping feet.

 

At Waterfront Station, the stormed worsened.

The fog pulled a shade down over the nighttime.

The wind pushed through her hair.

 

On the last day, they

slipped into their inner children,

letting the breeze open their jackets,

like seagulls spreading their waxen wings,

pretending to fly.

 

She asked,

“How does it feel” and he

nodded.

“Would you come back?”

 

‘I would,” he said.

“And I will.”

 

They kissed, serenaded by

waves, watched by

the winking eyes of the city.

 

It was the last day;

It ended with a kiss,

it ended with rain,

it ended.

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