I'm standing on this corner. Can't get their attention. Facing
rush hour faces turned around. I clutch my stack of paper,
press one to a chest, then watch it swoop and stutter to the
ground. I'm weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight,
and waiting for a winter to be done. Why do I still see you in
every mirrored window, in all that I could never overcome?
How I don't know what I should do with my hands when I talk
to you. How you don't know where you should look, so you
look at my hands. How movements rise and then dissolve,
melted by our shallow breath. How causes dance away from
me. I am your pamphleteer. I walk this room in time to the
beat of the Gestetner, contemplate my next communique.
The rhetoric and treason of saying that I'll miss you. Of
saying "Hey, well maybe you should stay." Sing "Oh what
force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of
one*" like me remembering the way it could have been. Help
me with this barricade. No surrender. No defeat. A spectre's
haunting Albert Street. I am your pamphleteer.