Ella and Me

This one is older, but I can feel that double-edged sentiment of romantic isolation increasingly re-occurring these days. Contrary to what that connotes, it's actually a welcome change...

Ella and Me

Gazing through a glass eye in the face of a solemn room,
to cobbled sidewalks, spattered with autumn rain.
Real live people are out in this damp October rush hour.
Well-dressed soldiers of industry marching through chilling drizzle,
shielded by a New York Times or an umbrella;
headed towards coffee houses and warm dinners.
Coming in wet and cold, to clean, freshly washed robes
and hot, naked arms.

They seem so glamorous down there. As if the cameras were rolling.
As if Woody Allen were re-making Manhattan right here on Bloor West.

From down on the streetscape they don’t hear
Ella's soulful warbling, questioning: Where Or When?
They don’t savour sharp peppers in a pasta for one.
They don't breathe the earthy fullness of the Nag Champa smoulders.
And if they bothered to look up -- just a few stories --
they’d see candles dancing shamelessly,
like Amsterdam whores, in my screenless window.

By the thousands they pass this anonymous window every night, like ducks on a wheel.
I’d do anything for their attention, but they walk on, expressionless;
unaware of the similarities between us; unconcerned with learning they are kindred.

Nevertheless, I am comforted by the fact that, forever, Ella is here.

If I were Rick Blaine this would all be much easier.
I’d resolve to send Ilsa's ghost on a one way flight
and resign to the end of the bar, content in my bravado.
However...the days of the steel heart are no longer mine.