Sunday, April 5, 2015



There’s a stretch on Bathurst
where almost every day at least one
stoplight’s knocked out,
a cop on point duty,
traffic cones around the city
works truck funnelling us
jerkily and grumpily
into a single lane.

It’s old people. Old
drivers. You see them standing
beside their big, slightly dented cars,
sprigs of egret white hair
awry under questioning.

They feel heart spasms,
heart attacks, lose control
or coordination, have
Alzheimer’s or just normal
drifting minds. They’re too
short, usually, for the solid old sedans
they prefer, reducing visibility.

I do my share of cursing
and gesticulating, mostly
at the other assholes merging,
but somehow, even when I’m
stuck a long time,
it cheers me to see this
mild natural terrorism,

the mostly powerless and ignored
casually punching holes in the grid.

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