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
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 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.