On the last day,
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;
“I have cold feet too,” he said.
She grabbed them; large,
his extremeties dry and chilly
like autumn branches.
She tried to massage warmth
The taxi took them to
Commerical Drive. People stood around
talking, a cluster of umbrellas sparkling
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.
“How does it feel” and he
“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,