In the winter of 2018-19, I walked by a cemetery and crematorium to catch my bus. Dragging my knuckles home after an unsatisfying day, uphill no less, pass the body markers of others, and the rush of evening traffic. —These are moments poets DREAM of! I am thankful for the times we walk among metaphors.
With a 45 minute wait for the bus, I recorded memory of my migration “Smells Like Winning” in the form of what I call Spoken Free Verse. It is a writing exercise; the challenge is to compose a prose poem in a ONE take recording. Below is the transcript, the audio file deleted. In October 2018, while recovering from a bike accident I posted some of the free verse transcripts and the original audio. The poem “Smells Like Winning” seemed too dark and I was hesitant to share that side of me at the time. Please, don’t be frightened, remember some pungent truths are blown away simply by the scent of a cinnamon candle.
Smells like winning
It’s seven minutes after five and I’m sitting at the 540 bus stop on Woburn. Its a loud, busy road connecting Alabama and Lakeway. The UPS and Post Office trucks clank by with chains on to help maneuver around the back roads that still have ice and snow. I have a 45 minutes wait for the next bus. The sun is setting somewhere behind me. Dusk officially starts.
Looking down I notice the heel of the black winter hose gave out today, a Thursday. It couldn’t hold itself together for another day. I imagine it was that hard strut from the fax machine that did it in. Friday marks the end of my first week; a new job with a new bus schedule.
If I wanted to, I could walk up the hill past the cemetery and crematorium to the bus on Lakeway, takes 26 minutes. If I did want to walk there it shaves 15 minutes off my commute home. But I don’t want to. Yesterday I did that, walked up the hill to Lakeway. Hiked up that sidewalk with bumpy ice-slush and old snow beside the rushing cars set out like hunting dogs that haven’t eaten in weeks seeking a sniff of a fox.
Yesterday I walked up the hill. I noticed forgotten gravestones deep into the tall trees where the lawnmower can’t reach. The stones are small, dark, gray, crumbling. A noisy creek snakes around the bottom of a ravine. I stop to listen. The crematorium comes into view by the stoplight. Stagnant cold air holds a blue haze over the building, but there is no smell of wood burning. The contemporary style building sits on the busy corner of Lakeway and Woburn. It took me a while to remember what they do there. I keep walking faithfully towards my bus stop thinking about the smoke as I get closer. As I walked into and under it, around the traffic light, hairpin to the left
My eyes weep in the wind.
I worked hard this week.
Rebuilding my life.
Breathing hard up this steep hill.
Taking in the smoke of the ones who lived before
filling my lungs with foreign moments