Booze is Banned in Bellwoods Park

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Trinity Bellwoods Park is

Calm and complacent.

People in pic-nic pods,

Running shoes off and toes curling

Hot and sore in the green, green summer grass.

They strum metal guitar strings,

Drinking Tecate from that

Red and gold aluminum condo can.

They live in the moment.

Burning free time,

Minds far from the hours

They sell to the man

Or woman.

For a pay cheque every other Friday.


This girl sharing my hand,

Her visage is a marketing scam.

Identifiable like a lighthouse beacon.

Sitting amongst the grass, twigs, and parked running shoes.

My pupils know the brand

Like our energy

Like I recognize her face

From all the others

In a second synaptic fire.

All because of that red and gold pattern.


My attention is drawn

To the Pine apple drawn in spray paint

On the flat-metal back of the

No hockey,

No alcohol,

No after dark shenanigans sign.

The same sign that is painted to my City garbage can.

An amateur Tag Artist.

Making a lasting impression on their environment.


A woman cracks her blanket like a whip.

My peripherals notice this.

The affogato in my cup

Grows colder with every sip.

The vanilla ice-cream slowly succumbs

To the boiled espresso bean.

‘Ain’t that always the case


The soft thwack

Of a tennis match

Metronomes that small portion of the day.

With small talk laughter,

Reinforced by alcohol and marijuana and nicotine.

Intervals of several pristine seconds.

It has taken longer to record with pen and paper.


The guitar string tinkles along

And the day retreats

Hand in hand with the twilight.


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