I walk the streets of this African town
with women carrying boxes of oranges on their heads
and the road a mad chaos of slow strollers
oblivious of two ton tins captained by crazed pirates.
Every day, this is my walk to the post office
to open yet another empty box.
The day has been fine so far but now,
now the weight returns
like another bloody cold front coming on from Cape Town
and I miss you and see you walking the streets of that American town
so far from here, so far.
I don’t know why this agony returns every day as the clock strikes one
or why it’s so difficult to reunite with you
but more than miles separate us, and its
not so much the ocean but the obstacles
not so much the continents but the constraints
and as I walk through this African town
on a sunny summer’s day with dozens of bright bandanas
blazing like flowers in a meadow
I feel like a fly trapped in a web
and my heart sinks like a stone
into the muck of some polluted pool.
What is this spider that has captured me
and bound me in its threads?
The spider is called paradox and the prime rate
and woven into this web of loss,
I don’t stand a fucking chance.