Finally, a Toronto poem because my writing retreat ends today and I’ll board the VIA train tomorrow morning. Back to my home in Toronto’s Film District.
Thanks for reading my little words y’all.
CBC radio urges donations. I brush my teeth and listen.
Groceries for bodies warmed by the breath of sewer grates
Tucked-up to star-eyed poinsettias at frosty Allan Gardens.
Flurries of extras fill fictive breadlines, at the spit
Jackie O beams beneath Corinthian columns.
A Russian call girl is lynched at the Distillery District
and Hairspray slaps blue on Queen Street red brick.
Across the bay we’re beckoned by buffleheads
welcome whimsy snows stretches of seagull
pocked still sand crusted beneath our unmittened nails.
The heat of kilns lure Island potters to urban
cottages where a touch of Dickens
prospers dusty sentiment.
At day’s end we board the ferry into the city.
Whitmanesque, the poet in your whispers.
You take my hand. You take me home.