A man collects bottles on Lonsdale street
At the feet of two young lovers
To recycle them like the words the boy uses
To make excuses and turn her down.
The man did not know what was breaking between them;
The moment like glass; the shards like regret,
Possibilities left behind like half-finished drinks
On the pavement where hopes fail like footsteps.
Like overstaying at a housewarming,
Or wearing a yellow shirt on a rainy day,
A conversation after midnight
Longs for what has been forgone.
But to feel is a kind of wisdom
And she should never have felt ashamed
Of being the girl in the purple dress who wanted you
To be her mistake.
