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.