Hot tea, hot coffee, hot wink,
to keep you inspired and going.
Deliver to me, that beautiful muse,
Blonde and young with teeth so white
Mine for the kissing, tasting that poison
that goes way deep — down to the lungs
that breathes in smoke, exhales fire
and with one wet, stroke of a moan
It’s all over now, my sweets,
This sweet street all over you, now
Stories of a dancer once so thin
that grey sweaters fall off her shoulders
as she tries to curl under the weight
of five blankets outside, by the balcony.
This is the only thing this place can give you,
Credit for the plotholes you’ve skipped
Port Credit, where we once dipped
despite the murderous storm and
the raging, ravenous lake–
where this young boy turned to me
mischevious in his eyes and exclaimed
his happiness so grand no words could describe it–
now, somewhere in Halifax,
snuggling with a blonde–
do you think he ever recalls
with empathy and renewed pain,
what could have been, if it had been
right from the beginning?
If a place can’t own you, reason me this,
who will remember,
the steps we mistook,
once we bare
our intrepid mistakes?