...written as though by Mr. Sark...
Night One-hundred Eighty-seven: Report from Montreal
Never trust Quebecoise gossip,
This I have learned
On the 401 driving Southwest
To Cornwall. East and
North of Mt. Royal to
St.-Hyacinthe
My stomach tense
with longing, devotion
like a twisted guardrail
seeming to occupy twice
the space it had before--
Stretching on forever, a line--
until, folded in on itself
becomes nothing, a distorted
miasma, rubbish from a crash.
Worthless, unsalvageable.
My journey, ill-advised from
first contact: near-nausea
upon initial transmission
receipt: missing Freelancer sighted
one hour past, Granby.
Three nights post-flight,
Post-search, post-nausea;
only cold emptiness.
I drive and search
without a cargo, without
a protocol.
Ever-widening circles
bring me to
St.-Jean-Sur-Richelieu
where St. Jean (who must
have received a similar
transmission) may be
found, seated at the bar,
face distended, bloated
with the disappointment
of Scotch.
From a distance safe I
examine his beatific
expression, tormented,
and how he looks of
your father
and how your father
looks of me.
Our efforts futile,
our mission unresolved
hope waning, hysteria
buds, quietly infecting.
Night one-hundred eighty-seven leaves
your father to his drink, and
myself to Montreal.
The Underground City may hide
your secret, a grail; may hide
your self, a stone, Rosetta,
to my life.
I swear off sleep until
you are found
and we may hide together
as one
Until, ancient as Tut,
they may unearth us,
rare codices to this, our past.
Disclaimer: This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
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From my website, Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html