Monday, June 29, 2015

Queen Street

french cruller
honey glazed odours
on a sticky sweet summer night
of coffee and donuts and big city lights
I sit alone in my white room
high above the donut sales
a curling finger beckons me down
enticing chocolate dripping drops
motioning, this way
a coffee, a donut,
what more could I want?
maybe todays newspaper
to plug up the hole in my heart
street cars rattle by
like huge waves on a strange ocean
crashing on the shores
of dirty sidewalks
hookers and drunks
angry voices, the sea birds of Queen Street
so I sit and listen
sinking down
under concrete
I may drown
fixed, frozen
a period piece
this little box
at the top of the stairs
a pastoral painting,
a time when bums were lamp posts
shit and puke rise up from the sidewalk
monoxide swirling
through my blood
a strange love
trotting through the night
through donut holes
on the edge of a cliff
barely at the corner of this picture
not able to go beyond the frame
and exit the sea
of futility
reminding me
of paintings
on my bedroom wall
when I was in that cocoon
strengthening my courage to face the world soon
where I would go
where I needed to go
maybe that's what I've done
maybe that's where I am
in somebody's painting
in some strange land
on Queen Street.

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