Thomas Hubbard: Lower Queen Anne

Thomas Hubbard, in Bruges, Belgium, photo by Sheryl Sirotnik

Lower Queen Anne

by Thomas hubbard

On Queen Anne Avenue, in a neighborhood called Lower Queen Anne,
at the foot of the hill sits a coffee house with some outside tables,
a place for long Sunday mornings . . . people watching.

It was on such a day this scene unfolded.

So this fellow sits right now, Sunday morning
at one of the outside tables, smoking a cigarette and
drinking from a paper cup of coffee from a stand nearby.

His orange, yellow, and white-striped trousers
argue with the electric lime green rain jacket he wears
over a dark blue hooded sweatshirt. 

Cheap running shoes and whiskers complete his outfit, and
he appears to be well into his fifties. 

Lines on this man’s face tell of new starts that . . . didn’t work,
of damp-skinned mornings beside women he needed to escape,
of realization that the love of his life would not be coming back . . . ever, and
the lines on his face tell of leaving home . . .
no, not some cheap place he was staying at, but rather
leaving the very idea, the very concept of home . . . leaving it behind, and
those lines on his face speak softly, so softly
of gathering determination to make it through  another day. 

 He looks from side to side, hands fidgeting at his crossed knees,
one cheap running shoe on the concrete while the other moves idly in the air,
white cotton sock top showing. 

He begins talking to nobody, or perhaps to all the world, and
then suddenly he’s gone, walking carefully up Queen Anne Avenue.
Walking past apartment buildings far beyond his means,
places where he would never even be allowed inside the lobby. 

He’s gone, walking slowly up that hill, and
all the lunches his mother may have packed for him, 
the meals he sat down to, the conversations . . .

close shaves he escaped, and those he didn’t,
ballgames he played, scenes he saw, songs he sang,
kites he flew, lovers he knew,

dogs of his childhood . . .
new toys and lessons in school,
days he skipped and buddies he skipped with,

letters he wrote,
cars he wore out or wrecked,
cold nights he wished for family while shivering alone, 

all gone along with him,
stuffed inside the hood of that old blue sweatshirt and
headed for whatever comfort this day will show him.

Thomas Hubbard (June 15, 1938-May 30, 2023), a retired writing instructor and spoken word performer, authored Nail and other hardworking poems, Year of the Dragon Press, 1994; Junkyard Dogz (also available on audio CD); and Injunz, a chapbook. He designed and published Children Remember Their Fathers (an anthology), and books by seven other authors. His book reviews have appeared in Square Lake, Raven Chronicles, New Pages and The Cartier Street Review. Publication credits include poems in Yellow Medicine Review, spring 2010, I Was Indian, editor Susan Deer Cloud (Foothills Publishing, 2010), and Florida Review; and short stories in Red Ink andYellow Medicine Review.