Truth of My Youth

APRICOTS IN THE WINTER

It is past midnight now
and my shudders are still open to the misty night,
a blinking plastic tube
goes off on a balcony in the distance.
Gray is the sky,
gray is my window frame in cold metal,
the skeleton of trees dancing in the wind,
gray the drops of rain pearling down
like the tears that were in my mother's eyes
coming in the way of sight
between what's in and what's out,
out in the fish tank outside.

Earlier,
I walked up the streets that had been barricaded
and were guarded by men in bright yellow vests
who shone in the night like the hundreds of bulbs
that suck up the energy
to spit the light down or blink,
to burn but not like roman candles.
They are embedded in flimsy plastic shapes
of snow flakes, stars
or raindeers.

A child dashed by and hit my leg,
i looked down,
_________somebody screamed, lights flashed,
a group of women, a flock of pigeons.
People were everywhere,
they walked down, i walked up,
some of them the arms full of goods,
kids pointed, adults held them back,
teenagers ran like juggernauts of impatience,
some guy got off his bicycle,
the ball of wool of his snowhat wobbled
as he stepped down
and he politely elbowed his way in,
a tough guy almost hit my shoulder,
i swear i would've hit him hard in the face...

It was 5 pm and the penultimate thursday
of the last month of the last year
of the first decade
of the second millenium
and the nearby church was opening for a ceremony.
I guess Jesus didn't spend his night alone
even if the shops were still full
by the time i left.

Fallen leaves cracked under my feet
like brand new euro bills.
Snow has melted and only left rust on my pedals.
When it subsists in chunks on the sidewalk
it's black with the shit we breathe.

'tis the season's plague when madmen lead the blind
Merry Christmas consumer.

poème de Noël avec quelque jours de retard