FINAL CALL
We shared a climate
neither could breathe,
its truth hanging low
like smoke.
Tight-held hands,
then tight-held mouths.
We reeled ‘til our whirl
reversed, unwound.
So many memories
I keep behind bricks
not quite high enough
to stop the leaking
of tarnished light.
Blame the years,
if you need to.
More distance
than we’d gathered,
I guess. That final
trade-off in a Tim Hortons
parking lot, halted small-talk.
You drove east, back to the house.
I headed west,
barometer in hand.
Author’s Bio
Mike Madill has worked as a social worker, computer analyst, and home contractor. A psychology graduate from York University, he lives in Beeton, Ontario. His poetry has appeared in The Antigonish Review, The Dalhousie Review, Existere, The Fiddlehead, Freefall, The Nashwaak Review, The New Quarterly, and previously in Vallum 8:2.