Reservoir by Cyril Wong
The morning drizzle
fails to perform
its threat of a downpour;
the sun only returns,
blunted, flexing its light
for the long haul.
You said we’d make love
upon waking —
some appointments
are still kept,
the future made real
by the promises we fulfil.
Otherwise, maps
lose their meaning —
the school you were told
would be there
has become a reservoir.
All I know about me
is what I once promised
myself, and you,
to believe.
And when everything fails,
there is always that song
on the radio, news
of something heroic,
another long walk
in the park, another cigarette,
a sudden prayer.
Art by Maggie Cedarstrom
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