P.H. Fischer

My SkyTrain

squeals past the East Van cross. As we snake toward downtown’s spring-soaked towers, the prodigal sun makes an appearance. I scan the horizon for a rainbow. Across from me, an elderly woman with lipstick beyond where it ought to end wonders what I’m looking for. A bit of hope, I suppose, after such a dreary winter. I hear you, she says.

Walking the block to home, I see my wife on our patio. I’m proud of you, she says, hugging me at the gate. What’d they say, she asks, pouring a splash of rosé into the silence. I tap the rim for more. She obliges and clinks her glass against mine. Her eyes widen, waiting for an answer. Could be a week, maybe more, I say. Forget it. It’s nothing. 

chocolates
for Fuck Cancer—
I buy them all

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About the Author

P.H. Fischer writes in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territory of the Coast Salish people. He conceives much of his poetry while exploring the beautiful environs of the Pacific Northwest. A member of Haiku Canada and the Haiku Society of America, he enjoys workshopping his writing with the Vancouver Haiku Group and Haiku Northwest.