by Harrison Wade
Harrison Wade is a writer and filmmaker living in Vancouver, BC. He is a PhD student in Cinema and Media Studies and his poetry can be found in SAD Mag, In the Mood Magazine, Echolocation, and elsewhere.
Snake Oil Salesman
Looking for someone to settle down with, to repot plants with,
to like my toes and bring to Thanksgiving dinners, to move every now and then
to another nowhere city with, read the post, and I answered.
We were married two months later and have been for four years.
You’ve taught in three provinces, and I’ve picked up two strays.
When we leave one place for another, we have a little get together
in the backyard of the rental and invite anyone friendly. It’s always August.
We’ve always already packed up. In the car, we roll down the windows
and say goodbye to anyone who couldn’t make it. We’re always going
so fast I secretly pray the wind gets the message back to them
before they’re old and can’t hear properly and think, It’s just the wind.
One day in Athabasca, we were sitting on the couch waiting
for the square of sunlight to move off the TV. The front door was open,
and I could see the clouds over the dentist’s house down the way.
The cats were off somewhere, and it was quiet but for the bugs.
I never learned their names. You got up to get us beers and came back
and did a funny sexy dance in your underwear and that old Stampede tee.
We laughed. You pressed a can against my chest. Somewhere
a few blocks away, a car started up. Funny sexy was just plain sexy.
I hoped it always will be so. “It’s too bad there’s no more cable,”
you said. “I’d like to see The Fugitive again but miss the beginning.
Just watch them running and chasing.”