If I rest for a moment
just before turning the corner
at Bonavista and The Boulevard
waiting for the light to change
the world becomes a busy place
filled with trapeze artists without ropes
just the hope that the almost orange lights
are strung as nets
and I, dropping down like teardrops
plowing the granite night,
am afraid that it will be a dream of bowler hats
and umbrellas
so I tighten my belt and wait.