Poem by James Quinton

Our New House

Cold and sniffly, she writes down the street names

left, right here, left at boulevard B

by the time I looked up she had disappeared.

Lights with metals shade hang from wire

green ivy, like beer bellies burped out of buildings

she’s gone to collect the keys to our new house and will be an hour.

Propped up against an old cart, I am in charge

of our belongings: the Rothko postcards, clothes

and drawing tools, a bicycle, some books.

She would not allow it, and I wouldn’t tell

but for some reason I feel like leaving everything here

nicking off to a cafe for half an hour to test out our new neighbours.

Of course I’d return and everything would have vanished

I’d run around knowing they’d not gone far; racing by men

hocking and spitting in furnace grates, a dude

following a model car over cobbles, a glimpse

of a young goalie trapped mid air like a statue,

metal light shades, a waft from a bakery.

To turn around a corner and find two fine bums

struggling with my bike bag, dragging our stuff

into a vacant lot, full of leafless trees and shrubs.

And, after diplomacy fails, I’d have to kick their arse

and drag all our belongings back to the cart

after dragging their bodies into the bush

and return just in time to catch my breath

take a sip of juice and flip open a book.

So excited she unlocks the front door

and I have to drag our shit up six flights of stairs.