we walk Front Street
Toronto. April pounds the ground.
money is a curve ball tossed like
discarded Tim Horton’s cups.
bowling for Canada.
we look south where Fidel rises
from his bed to wave and
George passes soiled uniforms around
the table. Steamboat Willie
begins the parade. the Pope is
dead somewhere on the dark side
of the world.
I’m drawn back.
a reviewer of destroyed celluloid
the gaps filled with
steamboat whistle. this is patchwork.
fields of grapes in a mundane
drizzle. people toiling at holding together
a flawed dam. the valley will be
lost to sluggish fish floating past
stumps and bodies and stumps
until the valley again rises.
responds to the pounding drums.
we are on Queen’s Quay. a vendor
sells us sausages made in Portugal.
we remain Canadian and do not
become Portuguese. snow turds lie piled
against glass and brass infrastructures.
we are in the shadow of the world’s largest
sundial. the time is wrong.
if this is Sunday morning
there is a logjam of horses and
buggies at the intersection in Wallenstein.
Canada geese break the geese barrier.
time eddies. a bottle of milk
left in the milk box on a January
morning for shift workers
would freeze were it not for the heat
leaking out of the house to drum back
the ice skates cold.
like escaping children.