Makeshift Melody

    Makeshift Melody


Cold South Pembina on the

front steps with no jacket, me and

you, killing hours before you get your

new tattoo.

Watching snow melt between my shoes.



I can't think of anything

to say, to kill an awkward silence

and the way the afternoon was going

I don't think

it would matter anyway.



So I wait, but instead, you

ask me to take a second wonder

why, if I'm a compass for every-

one else,

am I always lost myself?



Think back to our childhood,

it was the same back then, I think

I say, "Coming from me that means

almost nothing,

misunderstood either way."



We discovered old guitars,

the ones that wouldn't sing before

that can play a makeshift melody,

that sounds

not as empty anymore.



And I cannot help but think

this ain't the story of my life

this is the story of the West

this is

more than just a little dumb.



The problem is, I think, I say

what we think and say doesn't matter to

anyone but us, well-written and

well-meaning

but nobody has a clue.



So I sit, translate your words,

and imagine how short we used to be.

Instead, we agree about

temperatures

and let our days become dreams.