You’ve never believed in script writers 

Keep it improvisational,
  is the mantra – wings
through autumn air – that swirl of leaves

our neighbour describes
  when pointing at the maple.
An infestation of clowns has been enticed

to climb in and out of the windows
  of our relationship vehicle –
you plunder their clown greasepaint,

pirouette in their exaggerated footwear,
  mimic their histrionics, speak
slapstick – anything to avoid the heart –

anything to convince the gathered crowd –
  you’re the midway shill for soft landings
onto unforgiving concrete fantasies.

I’m a café umbrella, advertizing beer,
  Toronto skyline, jumbled street lights,
red hand adamant against red light –

taxi avoiding another Saturday night ride check,
  door locks and safe sex,
a salary between nine and five o’clock,

cocoon for our children.  You’re a leaf
  liberated by the dysfunction between
time and how the maple mourns vanished seasons.