Notice I only write about poetry now,
although I’ve visited this before
between Winnipeg and your place
in smoking room #7 at the roadside motel
and the ashcan at the door,
while my broken down Volkswagen
gazed down upon the men on a garage floor
at The Canadian Tire in Thunder Bay.
That summer, nothing held
to its own weather, rain turning
into stems of sun,
mechanics commenting on
what was taking place on the hood,
pooling light across steel,
stainless and blank.
– ph 29/4/17 Waterloo, ON
