Story/Poem text

in the summer of 1996
walking down Bloor Street
with native men sitting on the steps
of Trinity Church
some wearing red bandannas
like pirates or revolutionaries
while a man rolls in the gutter
happy drunk


i want to speak the language of despair


bereft of prose
destitute of stories
there are only bits and pieces
words
mumbled, hurting
tumbling through a dirt pink sky
threatening rain
a thunderstorm


will the unemployed hordes
drink themselves into a stupor
on a street littered with bars
that stay open all day all night

will they bootleg
escape to the country
escape this country
march down Bloor Street carrying flags
red, green, and purple?

who has seen the future?

even the revered family astrologer
got it all wrong