Coming from sheep/cows/dogs
we end up nowhere/yet here
in the city of workers striving for
dreams a capitalist-monger dropped
at the corner of Queen
at the feet of a whore/pimp/pusher
running concrete maze with impunity.
Like love and accessories to
the rhythms of streetcars and cabs
careening the mantra of business practice
down Bay to Front. We were never
trained to think in concrete—not
when clouds dredged days out
of the magic place.
And in the magic we court those words
we learned sitting in a fairy tale—
though here a dollar sign is the signature
for rhythm/for love/for the sun
sliding into second base across
the kitchen table—a smiling alien
signalling to the humour of his situation—
everyman in drag/waiting for dreams
in the Andromeda Galaxy to guide his life.