I brought you flowers but
they were from the supermarket, unlabeled,
and I couldn’t tell you what they were.
I left them on the porch
of the address you told me to find you at
if I ever felt brave some big-mooned night.
The porch was old-blood red
or plain brown. It was a moonless night and maybe
that’s why I didn’t call you outside — the moon
wasn’t what you had demanded it be. What’s more,
the porch was a colour, some colour
and I couldn’t tell you what it was.
I walked home across the park
with the squeaking see-saw that you showed me
the second time we ate cold dinner from the supermarket
I walked over the bridge, over the thin river near your place
and thought that maybe I would write you tomorrow
to ask how full the river was. I thought
how it was only a small thing, this river
that separated my side of the suburb from yours.
Do you know what the river is called?
It is only 241 long and quiet steps
from your porch.
So I won’t ask.
It is just another body of water
that you have words for, but that
I couldn’t tell you the name of.
Image by Ulrich Peters.