The day wears the colour

of 

a white envelope

with pink ribbons

placed last night,

outside the room

of a shared house

in downtown Toronto.

 

The Lake Ontario during 

a wet spring, tossing, moaning

crashing against the

stony wall, watched by

a pensive gaze.

 

An empty boulevard bordered 

by three weeping willows

with yellow leaves, 

 

a lonesome runner, along the

pebbly shore and the ghosts

of trees whispering songs

of the lost tribes.

 

The brown eyes 

of a bearded man sitting

before the interview-room, in

a reception area

full of hungry immigrants.

 

The gaunt face of a female student

bespectacled, preoccupied with

a long-delayed paper

on a laptop, corner-counter 

of a Tim Hortons, to 

close soon for a chilly night;

 

Of the torn tent 

of a coughing hobo

outside the Union Station

with its Beaux-Arts architecture,

part of the networks 

of the echoing corridors, plazas,

parking lots, the desolation

lit up by the neon lights.