For the longest time
The blue metal was hung
To decorate the shitty station.
Strangers climbed up
And the vintage bourbon
Pumped up the ghost town.

It was around the tenth night of March.
I dreamt of my lost straw and Billy Holiday.
The queen. Not queens.
I woke up to ‘My Man,’
The spade.  The chaos.
We talked about the David guy
And asked for the second one!

Damn! It tasted just like paradise!

-s
Toronto, April 2016