The universe is murmuring to me
It left a 102 Markham bus transfer
under my desk chair this morning
Everyone in my office says
it’s not theirs.
It made me wait too long for a streetcar
knowing I would get fed up and walk
It wanted me to stare, blinking
at the rift in the space-time continuum
that dropped an eighties hair metal band
in front of my building
Five guys with long, shaggy hair
leather jackets and skintight jeans
Pack of howling wolves licking their lips
jumping over hydrants and swinging off poles
Stepping out in front of cars, making them screech.
You can hear the universe
as it talks in its sleep.