Old Quebec City ,
there is nothing like it.
Everything becomes picturesque.
Every stone and house and narrow street
invites my fingers to click.

And at home now
I fix the photos up.
Many are not finished.
Such is the case with you and I.
I feel like the disposable camera,
tossed and thrown away.
I feel like memory deleted.

Yet, you are a master of paradox.
You delete the good times,
the fun summer spot where we ate pizza.
I have written poems.
You delete and wipe out hundreds
of kind moments.
The pictures you keep are the few episodes
you dwell on and on and and on ...

I keep the finished photos,
painted over.
I feel the stones and windows and colours
of the buildings and houses.
I know that in and out of the old doors
there have been many not so good passages
and many joyful ones.

The balance,
the sea saw, at times, the roller coaster,
of relationships;
all the times of walking and biking
that turned into walking and biking alone.
I wandered along and listened
to the trees in the park,
feeling uneasy for many moments now.

I discovered your disdain for me;
your wanting to be with
a woman who would never
say anything negative,
a woman who is not me.

I walk the streets.
I listen to the secrets of the winds
and the energys of everything outside.
It is all crazy at times.
Up and down and sideways I go.
You insist on a linear life,
with an induced high for the most part,
with a dream of a woman who is unattainable.
I have to wipe off your fingerprints from my space.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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