This poem again

Some ask how could we bring a babe into this time
when the North Pole’s a puddle in the dark
but I ask: what will you do with your cat?

The indoor toms and queens; shall they be released?
When the splash pad’s parched and the fountain’s stripped
will you spend a ration for your familiar, or

shall you calculate their age, deem them roughly adult
and set them free? No, I know you like I know me.
We need to make eyes with someone helpless we can help.


The prompt was cats. We have two cats. Our neighbours have two cats. My sister and her husband, three doors down, have a cat. Ours will be the coziest settlement amidst the fallout.

Tim Hortons are safe space


It’s been dusk for days. Cancelling moods.

Both of us back-pedaling and spacing.


Tim’s? Sure. Eye contact shitty. Lineless,

we abrupt small-talk, indulge disproportionately. Here?


Here: One-sided TMI to a jangle of anecdotal gossip

and gossipy anecdotes, then finally the meat:


the crash of the candy machine, the no-reply email,

the time to watch more day games, and the dead pet.


Strangers innocuous as variations on the jelly donut.

The absence of sugar packets focuses the heart.

Town home


Anarchist squirrels free seed from my kind neighbours’ feeder.

The proletarian kit of pigeons are most welcome for this,

as they are for our balconies; our ongoing conversion

of open air to rock face. After bird carnage at city hall, officials

have covered-up the glass walkway with brown paper.


Report: Warhol’s prophetic tweet is inverted heretofore:

In the future everyone will be shamed for fifteen minutes.

Another neighbour kept two brown work-socks

hung all winter. Another neighbour manifests solely

as a cat let out; a cat who makes both mine purr.


When a neighbour leaves our common landlord endeavours

months’ of reno., raising the rent of the free unit

such that every new neighbour is richer than the last.

Out front, a man pulls up with a piece of chalk

snug in a cigarette holder; it must be four.