You cannot dream of winter
happening because it is always
there in the background,
whatever month it is. Walking
along a pier in August you
will hear it grinding against
the iron legs, in the gulls’ mews.
Sitting on the porch in April,
you will feel it rubbing against
your legs, turning your skin
white as milk. Fake a surprise look
in November when snow falls,
ignore the glimpse of ice behind
your parents’ eyes.
After Walker Evans' 'Girl in Fulton Street'
This is not the city Frank
wrote about. There are no
hum coloured cabs or men
stopping for a cheeseburger
and malt shake. Lana Turner
has not died and the sky
has not worn its funeral coat.
This is the city made of glass
where people wear alien nouns
like Fedora and Cloche Hat
and sniff the air like gundogs,
eager for the scent of their identity.
Christian Ward is a 28 year old London based poet whose poetry
can be currently seen in journals such as Thieves Jargon and Origami
Condom. His chapbook, Bone Transmissions, will be released in March
courtesy of Maverick Duck Press.