1 New Poem

Beginning of Saturdays

At the star, I take form,
from notions and air, from
tambourine timbre of Yonge Street
corners and mass brewery notes
of metro underpasses;

at the start, I let it wash.

I take glad tidings of
street sweeper cleanliness from
the McDonalds cup kind of pure
ash that Fridays always take
as tribute, only to be there
again.

I take it in a sickly sweet stride.

There isn’t some life yet there,
some memoirist’s floral print
reflection on deathly winters
that came as revelations in
retrospect.

It’s a summation, rather,
IBM adding calculator crunch,
of what are poster-printed as the greatest
years of our lives.