And After 1952?

The repetition of images in a slide-show is
a parade down King Street past the Biltmore
which has morphed into a late-night club
where across the street Diane’s Restaurant
once was, a Friday walk from Waterloo into
Kitchener, for a hamburger and coke, before
walking further to Heintzman’s to listen to
45's straight from the era of rebellion.

Nothing I learned from that era prepared me
for where I am today, on crumbing streets
in a crumbing economic environment –
retiring man, walking away from old buildings
housing dying industries – retiring man
drinking coffee with street people in Tim Horton’s,
watching sunrise creep down city streets
like an invading army of MBA graduates.

My mother sits in her back room (cancer survivor),
watches birds fight for the seeds she spreads
across the deck beyond the family room sliding doors,
tries to control access to food between
raptor squirrels and innocent doves –
pontificates about her memories of Dresden,
the Tatras and DP camps, spins another thread
through what discrimination means when
you are force-fed into an alien culture

and I remember shorelines, waves, that crashing
against rock, the first feel of sand beach
after all the effort to become, to become,
to be a part of the history breathing around me –
person in distress unless I preform AR/CPR
to substantiate that which I’ve pinged off of,
man on the street, giving interviews which
make people laugh because they’re not
the reality they grew up in, or the reality
they could ever follow, the way I follow
forest paths, covered in snow, just waiting
for the first spring flower to bloom.