Downstairs, to my son, my partner sings
This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody),
halting where the instruments will fill
finding the words in her hand.
I put on a pair of clean white briefs
three o’clock on my mind.
Last night I bowled alone.
Going home, spoke to the driver
about moving around Ottawa
again and again and again
and again and again. He has a child
and a child and a child and a child.
Today, someone’s going to say
the drivers deserve poverty.
Yesterday the bachelor
went too long for my tolerance.
The gun games, the liquor tasting,
the big steak I forked for myself.
Ready for the brewery tour
the one guy without a desk job
clapped his hands & said,
“Let’s go see people work.”
Looking presentable, I left the Best Western
struggling to close my wallet, the neon sign
reminding, “If you’re here, you’re home.”
