same old
6 am, each day wit a y
cbc radio news world, someone is dead
cars do not stop at the corner light
ignoring instead, the spilled coffee
on trouser pleats, ten-late-minuteness.
and i, Eskimo woman, waddle to the curb
nose swollen and sore to carefully navigate
the same old path, covered in ice.
417 traffik is ear-numbingly euphoric
(
Read more... )