Once upon a time in Montreal, Oh man,
what a rube I was. What a place. They call
Paris beautiful. This was no museum, more
like a Broadway star. You know the name,
but, hey–back in the hinterlands. Back,
a turn or turn-and-a-half ago, great names
worked the backwoods opera house circuit.
I’ve seen playbills. Like being invited
to hear some exotic bird. I wonder
if the Phoenix also sang. Flight, fire,
predictability–song would be too much
to ask for. It rained a gray Canadian
drizzle all weekend. In a basement store
I bought a silk blouse, parakeet blue.