Candle
In search of a warmer light,
I strike a match and light
a candle to keep me company
while I'm unloading
the dishwasher, and a drop
splashes from a plastic cup
and puts out the flame.
Scratches
He looks down at the three-step scratch
across the back of his hand and wonders
at what point in the day it happened.
When he grabbed his backpack and ran
from his room down the hall
and out to rush down the stairs,
did he scrape it in a doorway?
Did he brush his hand against the wall
as he swung around the handrail of a landing?
When he took the shortcut through the park,
did a branch leave a trace of his passing behind?
Now he sits on a bench in the subway station
and disinfects his hand, thinking of things
he didn't think to bring along: a toothbrush,
his sleeping bag, a book. He hasn't found
the friends he'd planned to meet,
but he's got food, water, his phone, a charger.
The three small spots of red on his hand
remind him of the stars in Orion's belt
or the track of particles in a cloud chamber
he saw in a physics book in school.
He rummages in his backpack for a pen
and draws the rest of the constellation:
the four stars of Orion's shoulders and knees,
one for his head, a line of three for the sword.
Just then a woman comes down the steps
and stops beside him with her dog.
When he reaches down to scratch its ears
and begins to chuckle at the thought
that Orion the hunter must have had a dog,
the low murmur of voices and sobs
is slowly replaced by laughter.
First, it's nervous, out of place,
but soon the dog is barking to bark,
and everyone is laughing to laugh, forgetting
the scratches that brought them here,
out of sight of every constellation,
so many clouds of particles, alive.
Security
The
line was not as long as I had feared:
no
more than a dozen people waited there.
My
wallet, keys, and mobile phone appeared
from
trouser pockets with a casual air
while
two young women at the front were steered
through
the metal detector by a pair
of
deadpan officers, and quickly cleared.
My
shoes and belt, the cap I always wear,
went
in the bin to go through the machine.
The
swarthy man in front began to cuss
because
he had been chosen by a guard
for a
second search. But he was clean,
and I
went through, and got a boarding card,
and
joined the other riders on the bus.
The Boy Next Door
Why
couldn't you have been the boy next door?
You'd
know me better than I know myself,
and
every little mood of mine would be much more
than
pennies falling in a wishing well.
Why
couldn't you have been my first true love?
Your
feelings would still mirror how I felt
reflected
in your eyes, more than the shining of
the
pennies lying in a wishing well.
I fear
that I'll just be your passing fancy,
a
vision that you had in a daydream
or
when you were once blinded by the sun.
If
we'd walked hand in hand beside a stream
like
girls with boys next door have always done,
I
wouldn't have to wish for one more chance.
I wish
I'd been the girl who broke your heart
with
words of unforgettable farewell.
Instead
I am a woman who has to play the part
of
pennies, left down in a wishing well.
You're Late
I move
the salt and pepper back and forth.
I tap
my foot down on the floor.
I look
out the window at the stoplights.
I look
up whenever someone opens the door.
You're
late. I'm used to it.
You're
late. I'll just have to sit
here
in my booth,
'cause
it's the truth:
you're
late every time we have a date.
I look
down into the empty coffee cup.
I look
across the table at the empty seat.
I look
in the mirror behind the counter.
I play
with my ear and tap my feet.
You're
late. You always are.
You're
late. I'm alone in the bar,
in a
corner booth,
'cause
it's the truth:
you're
late every time we have a date.
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.
Photo by Lesther Zulauf