No Place in
Particular
It is me and the chime bass tic of
a moderately talented 12-bar blues band,
jack skiffle beat to match the
swish of quarter-water Czechvar tap;
some half-tolerable mediocrity,
more passion than inspiration,
more rushing flop-sweat than charm.
It is you and the land of orange-fronted
storage lockers, flat middle Canadian dialects,
an endless expanse of still lives, passive
flowing the muddy creek banks toes
dug between at uncle's fishing lodge,
in relief from summer's pavement pulse,
the same shaky condolence of, now, your hands.
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