LAST FEW MILES

LAST FEW MILES
PM# 1206034

The express bus,

Pearson to Kipling Station,

and then the long trek on

the subway, across the entire city

and then a short walk home.

A nine thousand kilometre trip,

the most tiring part at the end.

The bus had almost reached the

station when it happened,

someone wasn't paying attention

and pulled out in front of us.

Slam! The brakes went on, small

screams of surprise, then one

guy flew across the floor, landing

on his head.

I saw the car briefly, and then it

took off, the Air Canada Jazz stewardess

looked helpless without her beverage cart

but she knew enough to tell the man

not to move,

he wasn't going anywhere.

Shock wore off quickly, then everyone

started to file off and walk in the direction

of the station.

I stayed behind, not so much for heroics,

but I had two suitcases,

heavy as hell that I didn't

feel like dragging up the hill.

I put my sweater under the poor 

guy's head and tried to calm

him but what the hell are you

supposed to say.

He was having trouble moving his

neck so I expected the worst.

We waited twenty minutes for the 

ambulance to arrive, it

seemed like hours.

We managed to get the guy on a

backboard, he was pretty groggy

and they loaded him into the 

van.

The cop seemed a little too routine

for my liking, he didn't seem to take

the situation seriously.

Indifference, I suppose.

The supervisor showed up and I told

him what I knew, what I saw,

and what I believed happened.

Hopefully someone got the license

number down.

They hailed another bus and they

put me on it with my luggage

and I concluded the last leg of

my journey on the train home.

I guess that proves the theory

that air travel is safer than car, and

that most accidents happen

close to home.

Michael Crane

SEA MIST

Sea Mist
PM#1206033

I stared out at the sea

mesmerized by the sheer

vastness and the uncontrollable

power.

I looked towards Africa,

or where I supposed the Cape

of Good Hope was,

but there were too many clouds

on the horizon,

not to mention the thousands and

thousands of miles of ocean that

lay between us.

Out in the distance I could see a

naval destroyer, patrolling the

ocean for some insignificant reason.

The mainland hadn't been attacked

since the early 1800's but I guess

they still had to be vigilant.

The hulk of the Crucero General 

Belgrano lay at the bottom of the

sea quite a distance to the south

a reminder that even governments

can be childish.

The ghosts of the crew are still

in the sea and their whispers

are heard as the waves lap the

shoreline.

The fishing boats are all coming

in as the storm seems to be

looming in the distance, far out

at sea,

I hope they brought in enough

to satisfy the catch of the day

menus in the seafood restaurants.

I had salmon for lunch

but I could eat fish here everyday.

The gulls cry and cry,

looking for fish and finding

lots of garbage,

I wonder if all the ghosts 

in the water are frightening to them

or if they just ignore and

carry on with their lives...

The city busses pick up and drop 

off as usual, solitary people

walk down by the sea,

looking out, contemplating the

universe,

maybe some are even considering

suicide, drowning in the swell

at high tide, its not something

you would read about in the

newspaper.

I keep looking and looking,

staring out to sea, trying to

spot something but I come up

short and disappointed,

when will the ending begin?

Michael Crane

AUTUMN AVENUE

Autumn Avenue
PM# 1206032

I face a wide avenue, palm trees

on the boulevard stretching far

into the distance, opening the

imagination and imprinting a song

or two in the eardrums.

The austral winter sun beats down

on my forehead with just as

much strength and sweat forms

in every orifice. The chilly, but

dry wind has seared my nostrils

and tightened my chest yet I

move along, my shoes scuffling

up dust with every step. Holiday 

cabins line the avenue,

all are empty now, ready for the

weekend as tourists still flock to

enjoy the down by the river

experience, barbeques, picnics, lots

of beer and wine,

dancing into the night and waking

up with absolutely nothing to do.

I walk on, desperately thirsty, but

nothing is open, closed until friday,

I finally reach a kiosco that has

some signs of life, a skin and bones

dog lies in the doorway, flies buzzing

around it, occasionally a flick of the

tail is the only evidence the dog is

alive. I gingerly step over the

mutt and he doesn't even open his

eyes to acknowledge me.

The shop is cool and I opt for a 

giant bottle of Pepsi, a bottle from

the fridge is more expensive but this

is no time to worry about money.

I retire under a nearby tree, the

first sip of soda nearly causes

my entire head to explode but I move

on, opening my book I pass into

history, the oblivion of the Falklands

War, sitting in the territory that 

started it and wondering how they

let things slide so badly since then,

but that is for another day.

Let the sun pass over my head

and the night brings on a peace

that exists in no other part of

the world,

that I've visited anyway.

Let the clouds roll over our head

as they reach down to

sweetly caress your brow,

as if trying to extract the very

root of the pain from your soul.

Attach your strings to the

south winds that blow continuously over

the fertile Pampas and knock over the

Pepsi bottle as I sleep.

Michael Crane

MAR DEL PLATA

Mar Del Plata
PM120631

Only one week before,

veinticincodemayo, autumn

in full swing, but winter

had since broken over the horizon.

The sea was an irate witch,

the wind and rain had blown

her into a rage, outright bitchiness

tossed against the empty sands

the surf reaching almost to

the entrance of the casino.

Eight foot waves peaked and

surged,

one lone surfer in a neoprene

suit braved the surf,

Hektor versus Achilles,

the ocean's heel was still strong

and the surfer was plunged into

the sea at whim.

Further up on the pedestrian boulevard

few remaining tourists walked

in the mist,

looking at cheap memories, prices

slashed at the onset of bad weather.

I walked past the "Pink Floyd Tattoo",

that I'm sure is not endorsed

by David and Roger but Syd would

probably have appreciated.

Back at the casino I stood

in the wind and snapped

shot after shot of the surf

and the mist.

Approached by two teenagers I

tightened my grip on my camera

only to be relieved to find they

only wanted to bum a cigarette.

They told me I wasn't from around 

there, my disguise had not

worked, and they warned me of

two men who had been watching me.

I looked to where they pointed

but they were shuffling away.

I thanked the boys, pocketed my

camera and walked back towards

the city.

No more pictures today.

Back in the Havanna Cafe I

sat and relished the aura

while sipping a 'cafe cortado'

and an 'alfajore' with merengue

and 'dulce de leche'.

As the skied began to clear I

made my way towards the

cathedral, shining in its'

beauty, but way too close

to McDonald's and Burger King, 

I cringe at the 'Yanqui' invasion.

Michael Crane