Gerwin

Calvin White

winding my way
past the vomit and glass        
the Balmoral's orange lights
winking
sex inside
sex inside
Vancouver's chill
has frost in the air           
crystals creeping into the pores
of the sidewalk
rubbies and whores
jerky statues of memory
wraith my path        
and a voice lunges out

hey . . .
hey!

my eyes speed ahead
I haven't heard a sound

hey! . . .  hey
wait!

the words stretching for my back
trying to become smaller
I don't have any change
no smokes
don't want a bag
don't want to look

hey!
hey . . . . Mr. White!

what?

the street knows my name?

a black overcoat catches up to me
Mr. White
          
I know this person
it's Raymond Gerwin
played basketball for me in grade 12
a sloppy, wild player
with rare moments of penetration
and hot hands
he always wanted more time on the floor
the handsomest guy in the school
hair a black sheen
eyes bright as edges
fine smooth skin
the sight of him could take your breath away
but he spoke with a tic
mouth yawning mechanically
at the start of each sentence

his hand is still warm
tells me he's well
pleased to see me after all these years
but has to stop the smack
got stabbed in the side
a while back
doesn't ask for money
asks about my kids
what I'm doing
if I still coach ball
where I live
why I'm in Vancouver

then we part

it was good to see him again
a good fellow
blocks later I'm still tickled
how I thought the voice
was some rubbie
or junkie

and it was
only Gerwin