The red flower district

The glow orgasm of red crustacean light. Dial the number: 514 525 9111. Cop flash blue parked cars, and hookers. It says SEX in faux diamonds, dripped across her neck. A dangling dash
of fake Chanel, and tits for sale. One man, one woman. That's the way God said it would be. On Ontario St., Montreal. June 4, 2010.

Inside the clock maker’s home
Photo: Dale Reimer, '05

There is a house down a road and in that house there is a room. Half submerged, the view out its two-top basement window is a flower garden sill. Stones separate that dirt from grass, which grows out towards a sand-covered drive and highways further still. And in that room there was a bed, which now folds to a sofa. On that leather-bound present tense the man sleeps, all fat with moments past.

In a city far, far away, on a street dotted brick-brown, an apartment stands five stories tall. Come snowfall there is a room that sits in this stack of boxes, cold with turned-off heat. The fridge is empty, fan still; shoes sit on racks without a place to go. Bills pile high on top books and paperwork lost and found.

But before the plants brown and start to die (as they do each December) the mail arrives, the door spins, and into the hole the key turns.

He always returns.