Timothy Yan, that was his name
I miss him, still, 71 years later
I don't know if he's alive now
Nor, really did I know then in 1942
We were kids, he was 11 and now
would be 82 or 83
I don't know if he'd remember me
But, I remember him
and will forever
He was Canadian
He was my best friend
His family was Japanese
We'd come from Ontario, Burlington
Work brought dad west
So, we settled in a suburb of Vancouver
Tim's family had been here for a few years
There weren't a lot of Japanese in Canada
He was the first one I saw
We didn't have any in Burlington
So as I know
We lived on the same street
Went to the same school
He was Canadian
We played baseball, road hockey
football, we were brothers
blood brothers, we were a team
We moved west in 1938
I met him that fall in school
We were instant friends
The day I saw that St. Louis Cardinal hat
stuck in his pocket, all rolled up
He'd be Stan The Man, I'd be Red Russer
He was Syl Apps, I was Sam LoPresti
I was Turk Broda, he was anyone he wanted to be
We were both Joe Di Maggio
We were brothers
I remember the noise first
Great big Army trucks,
Olive green
All up the street
Not just at the Yan place
The Yokishuris, Wans, and Timmy's Aunt too
Soldiers, loading the trucks
We weren't allowed out to see
Notices had been posted though the door
We could only watch and wonder
They were being moved
They scared the powers that be
Little Japanese families
Many born here
Scared the powers of  King in Ottawa
And they had to be moved
Inland, to the Okanagan Valley
To Camps, in Canada, their country, Camps
Canada was at war
With it's own people
With 11 year old Timothy Yan
Ever since Pearl Harbour
Ottawa got scared
Japanese fishermen in the west
Japanese fighter planes from the east
There had to be spies in British Columbia
Tim Yan was apparently one of them
They were told their property was safe
All their goods in storage
They were lied to
A month after they left
The auctioneers came in
Everything was sold
Everything...
I hope he kept that hat
Dad bought what he could
So did other neighbours
I still have the boxes
Never opened
Waiting for the Yans,
I miss Joe DiMaggio
I didn't understand it then
And I don't now
My teachers couldn't explain it
My minister said it was the best
That didn' t help either
What best?
Who decided what was best?
Best for who?
It wasn't best for me, or Tim
Nobody asked us
He was just gone
I spent years looking for him
He never came back after the war
They were moved further east
They were sent to Japan
He was from Canada
Why would they send him to Japan
He was gonna be the first Japanese big leaguer
I hope he made it
I grew up and became a lawyer
A citizenship lawyer
This was not going to happen on my watch
To anyone again
Not while I was around
I miss him
He went to war
And never fired a shot
He went to war
And never knew why...

I spend Mondays pulling pieces
of glass from the bottom of my feet.

Every shard reminding me of you.
Every line of blood bringing out your face.
And I smile with a bitterness,
as I throw the pieces away.

On Tuesdays I try to make
everything symbolic.  

I sit at my window in utter bareness,
and whisper to the cold panes that if everyone
stopped lying, we'd all be left naked.

Wednesdays are the days I drink
only water, and eat only celery.

Hoping to purge my body of poison.
Hoping to drop another pant size.
Wanting to get high off double zero skinny jeans.

Thursdays I always attempt to draw,
but never get past the art of words.

It's so much easier to stay in
my comfort zone.  Hang out with
punctuation, margins, and lines.

Fridays have a way of
being rather nostalgic.

It's never a happy trip down memory lane.
Too many wrong turns to be made.
Too many *** holes to get lost in.

Saturdays I binge on pizza,
realizing how much I love to eat.

The strangest feeling I'll ever know,
is that of feeling full.  I'm so used
to feeling completely hollow.

Sundays are horribly predictable,
that I can always count on.

To diffuse my energy I break wine bottles.
You'd never believe how it feels to walk
over something you've completely destroyed.