I take out cash to pay my library fines
but these bills are so hot they don’t even make it
into my pocket to smolder
before I must thrust them, flaming,
at the cashier of the used bookstore,
and blow on my charred fingers.
On the corner, three teenagers strum familiar songs.
I cast my change in their guitar case, sensing
the reuniting of myself in parallel dimensions
-- we are all here at this moment,
wandering Bloor Street with these big books
whose pages have attained self-realization,
being pencil-marked and well-turned.
Check out my latest post on LAID, Can we handle the truth?