Poem of the Week

At metro Joliette with my jolicoeur,

we walked to the depanneur,

discussed dasein while buying

a Perrier and a block of beurre.

Outside, minus twenty-three,

with windchill it's real fuckery,

your back pockets warm my fingertips,

your cherry ChapStick so summery.

Take me to the everglades,

a place where flowers never fade,

but pans inside your basement wait

to fry us scrambled eggs, real buttery.

Blue sunrise on my palms, a peignoir,

a neighbour grows peonies in a baignoire,

I dreamt a homeless peintre

revealed Hochelag in a Renoir

Make love inside these old maisons

until condos sail across the St-Laurent,

The vieux-accent is extinct,

And the cordonier’s window plein noir.

Morning flurries, très légère,

someone’s shovel scrapes fragile air,

a chasse-neige is herding cloud,

The hunched man salts his spiral stairs.