Old Montreal

The delight that is you
leaves me to dwell in your hands
for a while
reflect on your concerned smile
keep the distance real
for
in real time it means nothing
to others
who know naught-
how feelings
can eat you up alive
in a non-existent reality
how this reality
can determine another.
Daydreaming scenarios
written out in storybooks
drunk poems
with visuals
for poets like us
that need more
than mere words.
I could go on for
another more decade
begging zero needs
laughing at obscure art.
I am somewhere in that painting
my hair touched my waist
then
and my cheeks were fuller
pouring draft Boréal rousse beer
in the heart of Old Montreal
buying original art décor, café au lait peinture à la main
Jewellery, Indian soapstone
going to lofts
discussing art as the paintings
were lined up against the wall
windowsill
atop beds
and Mark & I came up with
great ideas
he illustrates my poems;
Kent showed us
how art and reality blend,
signed D-Tox.
Paid five hundred dollars
for a snapshot of my life
in another remote time.
Somehow loyalty
means everything again
in that rustic pub
where we met singers
artists, drunks
exchanging my portrait
for a night of drinking.
He drew a charcoal of me
he poured out his heart
and soul
in that empty glass.
I was always a good listener.
Too busy living to write
anything down.
Now it’s all hazy
like a lost dream
of
Youth.
At least I have the painting.

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