What I miss. A poem by Tim Train

I miss
Crossing light buttons
So softly
Gently responsive to touch
That click, smooth and sensuous,
The tick tick tick
As you wait to cross

I miss
For who amongst us has not been moved to hug
A crossing light pole,
From time to time,
A petrol bowser,
A particularly saucy-looking public water bubbler,
To lick them,

I miss
Park benches
It’s been so long inside
That I almost forget what their touch is like,
And this one particular park bench,
Sissy was her name,
Was surprisingly proficient in all the positions in the Karma Sutra and The collected works of Alex Comfort,
Considering she was a metallic object rooted in concrete
Ah, Sissy
Do you remember our romantic dinners together
Our long nights
Until the inevitable complaints from the neighbours
It was then that we discovered what community was really about

But that was a long time ago
About a month
And I am a changed man

No longer do I inhale
Used cigarette butts
Or taste
Used cotton wool buds
Discarded tissues
Before dousing them in methylated spirits first
Yes, yes, quarantine has changed us all
No more do I fondle door knobs with shuddering fingers,
Eyes closed, murmuring,
Near ecstasy
Without asking

That’s manners
I know that now

I have grown
In so many ways

I miss all these things
And cafes


Tim Train is a Melbourne poet. You can buy his book, ‘Hangover Music’, at the conveniently socially-distanced website of Ginninderra Press. Or check out his author page.

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