Instead of hiding in stalls
In the darkest parts
Of Bloor St. bars
He drinks coffee and
We order pie
I’m drawn to him
Like most are
To a rolled up bill
His eyes still white
Instead of red
And glazed over
His words aren’t slurred
We laugh over
What we might do
Who we might be
But it’s all real
His mouth moving
Unveiling stories
Without a hint
Of beer on his breath
He tells me I’m pretty
And takes his last bite.
We hold hands at
Midnight, in a booth
At the lakeview.
No comments:
Post a Comment