Kensington, Toronto, Coming Home from a Nightshift.
there were pigeons
tumbling under a lightened sky,
and shop-owners pulling up their shutters,
cool as watercolor. and you'd turn off
stepping off the streetcar,
and going past those little stores that sold
chinese wickerwork and tourist toys,
stepping around parked cars
scattered by last nights parties. sometimes
there would be a film crew shooting
which would pause to let you pass
like swans on a canalway.
was quiet as it's own strange village,
separate from the wrack and rumble of city,
people putting out boxes of brown nuts for sale
amidst the smell of rising bread
and you'd turn corners and see barroom patios
scattered with dropped cigarettes like appleseed.
the morning tasted like cool
and a light
wet sun filtered in overhead,
making play with the squirrels and treeleaves,
with the shadows of street sweepers combing the gutters
who'd be sitting in the park.