Waiting Only Twice a Day

Trying to say
kind words,
“surely room for all”
waiting on the 15 Cambie
amidst dig and cover
moving one truck
at a time
one sinkhole

the battle-ax reserves judgment
“she jumped the line”
and continues,
“and people may be left behind!”
in fresh tarred reflected heat

Wonder and gaze to avoid the disagreement
She chortles,
“You must never wait here -
before now”

noting the stop moves most days
edging around impending tunnels
i aim to say,
“i’ve stood at each stop twice -
each day” recalling drizzle, sun and hail
but missed the chance
when we all fit aboard

standing up already

standing up already
prepared for something
classified as an unlikely event

“in the unlikley event” suggesting a guffaw
in less official communication …

an owl might
watch even if
nothing to see but
ripples, clouds
& forgotten identity

in love with the girl at the deli

in love with the girl at the deli

buying 100 grams at a time
to peek under
her cap

pigtails poking
as running the slicer
ordered it shaved
to take more time

hiding to shyaway her eyes
so i can’t read her mind

change my route to think about the neighbourhoods

i change my route
from time to time
to think about
the neighbourhoods

switched Cambie 15
for Main Number 3
or Fraser if i don’t mind
cutting across Kingsway

skirted schoolgirls Xavier-bound
headphones sweater
in rows

downtown exchanges
spake in broken halts
sometime gleaming
often rain
occasionally sleet, hail or ice

noble bus driver

noble bus driver (probably steve or curtis)
said he might
scoop me up when running down
the catch up hill since they roll a minute or two earlier now

might be later he says
cause it might be slow
doesn’t ask me for a pass
7:54 on 29th and
st. andrew’s and the rainy
mountain side greenbough morning

3 Men in Cowboy Hats next to an Irish Pub

Across cobbled rainy road i am alone in the vancouver night i draw closer one is a cardboard cutout of clint eastwood in a spaghetti western kit – poncho – flat wide brim – wide brimmed hat

Another a sculpture, weathered and supported, attached to the building in some manner.  HIs get-up is classic hollywood western – stetson, chaps, boots with painted spurs.  The whole sculptured man’s paint chips, rotting, revealing the manner of plaster or such he is constructed of.  The creases of jeans and bend of elbow of checkered shirt, chipped and eroded as water drizzles settles in the crook and meets the fringe of the leather vest.

The 3rd stands naturally – somewhat slouched – the belly is larger, the shirt more like a sweater – the hat more expressive with a oft-colored trim setting out against the streams of light drifting through the mannequins, saddle, sawhorses, slogans and such not in the window. the middle one draws on a cigarette and exhales.

As for me, moving across a intersected choice of six options.  Alternatives, and me loose , easy and baked, drift slightly south into irish heather – steadying, make way to conservatory room, far back.  White painted bricks along one wall save for standard beer mirrors – Guinness, Kilkenny, Harp, Bass so on … Rest of room is irons and glass – the floor rough, raw alley cobble, old as the city – red-bricked and sloping here and there.  the window behind me is cracked open but all are drafty, wooden and blue or green and all would be open in summerly times – now meditative dripping – needed cool air now.  Perhaps one may enter direct from the mews – popping in to the midst of music or drafts from the courtyard behind after leaving lover or friend with a wave to disappear – I imagine the proper hat to wear. I am not sure.  Long benches, wooden and freshly painted a blue which i want to call charlotte or to match a shirt i had in third grade if i can find the slide.  tables are tiny with smaller stool as though expecting tiny folk.

Pipes and gas lamps confuse which is in and outside.  As most times, i order a dark beer.   Then a cocktail on the menu with absinthe.  I ask as though aloof and tired with woolen coat, clunky leather shows, stitches fresh and hide pebbled, corduroys salvaged from a bad dream.  I’ve earned a moment.  The fellow with perfectly trimmed sideburns and uncommon tan brings cocktail. “Cheers!” he offers incidentally or instinctively.

Hi-ball glass w/ straw.  Elvis Costello sings then Joni Mitchell, the Van Morrison.  I don’t use the straw, drink from the rim, sweet, liquor pungent and smooth – I set it on the strongbow coaster.  2 couples and a table of 3 women all of all talking quickly and personally – i hear indiscretions, incidents and sentiments, apart from the miscellania.

I must be invisible again.

Refined not Created

The sugar refinery
seems to operate
yet i’ve never witnessed an act
of refining
or manufacturing
yet the trains go in and out
just before
New Brighton
and slightly east of the drive

Is the sugar squeezed
from beets?
but certainly not
sugar cane
tasty when thrashed pulled through ringers
dripping sticky on humid day

refined not created
sugar from the ground
or canes sprouted from Hawaii
half a globe around

All day walking in 1950′s Kitsilano

All day walking
in 1950′s Kitsilano
from my clapboard porch
i see the Lions

Leaving in
Starched shirt
battered hat
in absense on snow

Streetcar ride
near Dunsmuir
near the laundry mart
the store on Georgia
where i work
is expanding
past the brick facade

–

for Alice Munro