Tuesday, August 11, 2020

Andrew Shields Through Old Lenses, The Speaking Streets, AND Afrobeaten Foodcourts

Confirmation


In case you're ever not sure that you are

going bald, take a bath and wash your hair.

When you rinse the tub, the water

will wash away what you have lost.


In case you're ever not sure that you are

going blind, dig out an old pair of glasses from somewhere.

When you put them on, you'll see

that everything's further away than it seems.


In case you're ever not sure that you are

straying, put on some clothes you rarely wear.

If they feel right, you might as well

be someone else for someone else.


So with my thinning hair, I'll eye

my newly chosen one as best I can;

in my outdated threads, I'll lie

with another as another man. 


Say


"Look," say the blinds.

"Keep out," say the mirrored windows.

"Touch me," says the corrugated metal.

"Have a seat," says the sidewalk.

"No standing," says the truck.

The street signs mumbles in the distance.


"No entrance," says the door.

"Read me," says the grain of the wood.

"Pull," says the doorknob.

"Break me," says the glass.

Nothing, says the concrete,

waiting for graffiti.


"I'm blue," says the sky.

"Listen," says the streetlight.

"We're alive," says the apartment house.

"Time for lunch," says the clam bar.

"Or a drink."


"What will that be

a picture of?" asks the man

passing by, unseen

by the camera.


"Let's go," says the truck.


What Song


The music on the bus is loud –

the driver likes the latest thing.

And acid jazz is piping out

a hipster store we don't go in.


The café turns her down so low –

at least it's Billie Holiday.

The busker playing in the snow

sings something from his younger days.


    The evening's coming and soon we will know

        if we're more than just friends.

    What song could you sing me tomorrow

        before the beginning ends?


The food court's almost too cliché:

so many things to choose to eat.

The only music that they play

is reggae or some Afrobeat.


The club we stay at for so long

has techno dancing, flashing lights.

When we walk out, we hear the song

the city plays all through the night.


    The night's getting old and we have to decide

        if we're more than just friends.

    What song could I sing you tomorrow 

        before the beginning ends?


Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His collection of poems "Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong" was published by Eyewear in 2015. His band Human Shields released the album "Somebody's Hometown" in 2015 and the EP "Défense de jouer" in 2016.

Twitter: @ShieldsAndrew

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewshieldspoems/