Toronto poems

Lately there’s been some odd pangs of nostalgia drifting through me on walks and bike rides through Toronto. It’s not like I’ve lived here (downtown, at least) my entire life, only migrating from Pickering about seven years ago. Still, I love this city, and I’m consistently inspired by every storefront I pass, iced americano I drink, and streetcar I feel rumble by. I jot lines about these things down in my notes app, and hope they eventually turn into something greater. Usually they don’t, but these ones made it through. I hope you enjoy.

Biking through my city

I think it’s finally spring.

The smell of tilled soil, and new grass, and delayed progress,

While I trace the relinquished curves of Ontario place.

The fumes of the High Park fauxcomotive, as ice cream drips and day trips loiter.

Crinkled steaming Momos (with their hyper orange pepper sauce) grasped while skipping steps at Queen and Dunn.

Encroaching picnics that swallow six tables spewing surprise along the gravel.

(Who actually has that many friends!?)

The flooded grass of Sorauren’s desire paths, 

Beside stalls punctuated by provincial garlic and my second favorite samosa.

My sun, its breeze, and a new bike.

We've waited a season for this.

A flavor worth pining for,

Like the monthly feature at Ruru. 

Goodbye monster mash - hello strawberry.

It's back. And we indulge.

Eating my patty: v2

The last few bites of a spicy beef patty,

Are the best and the worst. 

Please understand.

As the meat shuffles to the bottom of the pastry

And collects like a molten prize:

a $2.50 gold medal.

Either side you bite,

doom.

It erupts and quakes

Scalds your lip

And you recoil in worthy pain

And you look up and down Baldwin to see if anyone noticed.

Of course not.

They've all done it before

And you're just one in 2.8 million

And you’ll do it again

My favorite ramen

I saw you on Queen,

In front of my favorite ramen shop, on my left.

I remember because I was coming from work, hungry.

I recognized you immediately

You were put together, like a breakup text.

Those eyes and that frame, bundled cold like forever

And those cheeks.

Of course, those damn cheeks. 

Rosy in the cold,

And full of every bad thing I ever did.

Honestly, I don't know if you noticed me. 

A lot has changed, I think.

But there was one glancing millisecond that made me sure,

You saw what I had become. 

You were with someone.

I was alone.

I wonder if you turned around as I passed.

I doubt it. 

I didn’t. 

I wonder if you thought I turned around too?

I doubt it.

But I still came home and wrote this. I’m not sure why.

Because it had been years. Maybe four or five. 

We had a lot of happy moments. And then they stopped.

Both of our faults. Mostly mine. 

We talked about being friends forever.

And now we walk silent past each other

In front of ramen Isshin. 

my swan

In front of a white gate, heavenly nerves.

Set to meet a couple minutes down the street, 

Back against a booth that’s charming and common,

Eyes on the door.

17 minutes late you introduced yourself to my night

Wrapped in a dress seeping soul into the walls

It stopped my heart for a second, a minute,

Is it going again?

You sat in my booth

Like I won the lottery.

As if there was a line of people waiting behind me,

Listening to a machine unravel my numbers.

Patiently waiting for life to return the favor.

Fondue, Nicoise, oysters - sounds like a second anniversary,

Somehow, it worked. 

A bold but maybe routine order. Might be le swan’s résumé.

Along with that: Two gin cocktails, one designed and one a shaker’s favorite.

I tried yours. Thyme, we thought.

You didn't try mine.

“I know what a negroni tastes like,” 

You said coyly behind a real smile.

Of course you do. 

Eternal and timeless at both ends of the table. 

Speaking of the future - the seating limit was 120 minutes

I guess we doubled it. 

Three and a half hours flew by,

Like the 501 behind the biscuit blinds.

I really liked it when you felt as judged as I did,

For absorbing a moment, and 

Forgetting about how anything or anyone could take so long.

The last ones come from the 8pm reservation.

Our waitress is drinking Cynar with the distant four top.

She’s begging us for eye contact. 

But we’re not done capturing the night.

A swan in this northern light.