Runcible Spoon

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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

and trash

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.

Kensington, Toronto

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

fresh watermelon

and a light

wet sun filtered in overhead,

making play with the squirrels and treeleaves,

with the shadows of street sweepers combing the gutters

and someone

who'd be sitting in the park.