Two Bridges To This Station

We haunt a million places.

Ask Jean-Paul in that café

or Isabel with dreamy eyes;

the local Romeo on the beach

or the Juliet on those snowy slopes;

ask them where they wish to be.

It is the same there,

for you or me, him or her.

How we wish we were in another’s place,

when the wallet’s empty or the mood’s foul,

when the rains don’t stop or the sun is hot.

But, it is really the same there.

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We do not belong there,

in that place without clocks,

with a shaded path

to an unknown station.

On those walls,

there is a scrawl over ours

but our seat is there

in that empty station

with the scarred ground.

We arrive with the last train,

mid-morning and south-bound.

The north-bound trains

don’t stop here anymore.

The locals pass by, without a glance;

for the gossips have gathered

at the gate or the market,

at the tea-stall or the backyard wall.

They are there for proper yarn,

stranger than ours,

when clocks come alive and merrily cry,

“Cuckold! Cuckold!”

or there’s blood and stones on the street

and a dead cuckoo.

There are braggart’s tales

of conquests and passionate lies,

about when

they spied the white cotton petticoat,

they slept against a bare broad chest,

the kisses and more,

on shaded river steps

or beneath the bower.

We are shy

and we choose

narrower paths

to our close secrets.

Those paths lead to the first bridge

sagging with old tales.

An uncle drunk drowned in these waters,

a cousin stuck mowed down

by the last north-bound train.

On the right,

there’s always the blue-green calm.

On the left,

dark clouds hover but we are not scared.

There’s another bridge

which tries to hide the world beyond.

It’s a new bridge

with one tale to tell.

If you go to the edge,

you can spy.

Over the coconut trees and the yellow bloom,

there’s our old friend in his boat,

barely seen through misty eyes.

His mother was a witch or a soothsayer,

an astrologer or a priestess;

her son like us denied all.

He pushes the pole against the river bed,

his two-helpers lying prone upon that cargo of husk.

We used to play together

when we were friends with him,

there’s a chipped tooth

to remember that

and there’s another deeper scar.

That dry lonely stump

in the middle was green then,

as green as that island

with the temple,

where we wished to go.

He refused us that ride,

“Not all places are the same –

that’s for lovers

who will be together.”

I kicked and punched

and screamed,

“We will be together.”

I cried

against his silence,

“Tell me why.”

To stand on that island pier,

to be in that cottage,

to pray at the temple,

to be together,

that’s not for all.

I am here,

she is with Him.

There are two bridges to this station,

there are two forever separated.