it’s 2014, high june

i tour to toronto

i am not a rock star

i will not become a rock star

but i am paid to make poems.

 

i meet up with zooey

we started out together

as lesser-thans

in our creative writing class

like mice or bees, the way we moved

made our profs itchy, twitchy, nervous

too much laughter, too many puns

lacking in cerebral chill detachment.

 

in senior year, when our prof refused

to come out to our indie coffeehouse

we folded our tents, eased out

into the star and sand night.

 

zooey moved east,got a trillium grant

for a documentary about bees, does

a lot of other arts work there, but

when i meet him in the danforth

i look among the flowers.

 

khaki satchel, scruffy jeans

there he is, i could always see

the little old man he’ll become

and that guy is still there, waiting

toronto hasn’t sleeked him

he grins, and we slope off

to hipster burgers, move on

when the stanley cup comes on.

 

we find a coffee shop not too far

from the 80s, and of course, a storm

blows in like 87, sure enough

tornado out in ajax, here torrential

why is it? zooey grins, whenever

we get together he has no umbrella.

 

we protect the books and programmes

there is no help for my well-bred shoes

 

despite the storm, people come out, some for me

some for a creative writing prof, he sits

surrounded by his students, who sit

with a gaze zooey and i could never have assayed.

 

but i take the stage, and the muse takes me

the way, the work, the ceremony

come and touch us, and the night

fresh washed, abides.