Your ugly grey running shoes
clash against cream leather couches
on the fifty-first floor lounge
that serves us ten-dollar cocktails
and tiny gourmet pizzas.
The only thing it seems to go with is
my faded Toronto Public Library bag,
flung behind the long, sheer curtains.
We fuzz our brains with tequila shots
and even so we find some quiet space
within our mismatched party, who say they like
the LEDs that now coat the CN Tower. We can see it
pulsing, transitioning colours to the south,
and you brashly declare:
“No, whoever thought that was a good idea
is a fucking idiot.”
I can’t but laugh. Even in a group,
one look or smile is the key
to our own private VIP room.
I have now written 200 poems since the creation of this blog. How crazy is that??