At the Canal

Patrick Gurris

I wish to lay my head
into your lap
at the canal
on the bench, you know
(too few benches,
even less lovers, it seems)
and if it rains,
as it invariably does,
I wouldn't mind,
I wouldn't mind at all.

see how little makes me happy.

of course, you'd have to smile
and stroke my hair
you'd say something,
something nice, I hope,
a barge would go by
filled with peanuts or donuts
for Dortmund bound.
I'd sigh,
I'd nestle my head a little
closer into your lap.

looking forward to kissing the nape of your neck.

now, as daydreams go,
isn't this a nice one?
and humble,
if I say so myself.
now, I am not so blue-eyed
not to know
that the drug of proximity
won't demand a harder fix
once the days go by -
a man who's nothing
is easily sated, yet
I'd keep this miniature in me
as others wear amulets
on their chests. Promise.

if you would only let me.

correction: if you'd only want me to.

postscript (written at the same time):

and one day we'd have a first fight
and be disappointed with our own vision
everyone's an island and all that, but
even islands need friendship
and a postal service
otherwise they are just rocks
beaten by the sea.
from canal to islands,
quite a stretch,
but not for our imagination,
is it?