My friend Mark lived in the saddest houseon my street. It was small, brown, the brickswere cracked & you couldn’t see through thewindows. We used to hang out in his livingroom, all my other friends had basements. Thewalls were tobacco-yellow, but they had an oldpuffy couch—Mark & I would play-fight on itwhile his mother made Rice Krispy squares. Hismom liked me. Back then she was probably thesame age I am now as I write this poem. She wasa kind, attractive lady. If I knew her at my age Ibet we would be friends. She was caring & hadan amusing son & they loved each other in thesaddest house on my street.
James Hawes writes & lives in Montreal as a father, husband & doorman to cats. His first full-length book of poetry Breakfast With A Heron (Mansfield Press) was published in 2019. He sends kindness & good vibrations to all his fellow writers—and to everyone else for that matter—searching for inspiration in this strange strange time.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan