My Gold Hair Is so Unreliable

By Emily Pohl-Weary

Green light
the city rips past.
Rain in Chinatown, fish markets,
garbage bags oozing brown urine.

Saturday night in dance-club heaven
teenage girls crumble under speeding tires
lost in the midnight of boy love,
caught in flashes of light.

I sparkle brightly
until hard night wind attacks my miniskirt,
high heels burn fire,
fueled by wandering.

I always return
to your smooth beer drinking,
bubbles of love.

The taxicab driver tries
but he cannot bring me home fast enough.
Your eyes in the window.
I walk up the path,
my left shoe grazes the curb-fucking toes.

It might have come from the neighbours,
“I guess I don’t love you”
rippled out in all directions.