it was the second time

this month
catching the last metro
from Charlevoix
lugging my bike
and a poor night's misfortune
with sore feet

and thinking
about the lack of history
that lay beneath Montréal

how I longed for Sofia:
an underground museum
at every metro station,
the time there waiting
amidst the relics
like a tree growing
into its roots

but here on the platform
of Lionel-Groulx
with its gaudy orange
60s bathroom tiles
I must occupy myself,
and so I reminisce about
how some numbers
make me feel

how 6875 reminds me
of what I’ve been putting off
and 5359 used to be my go-to
and 777 brings me cheer
and 888 was supposed to be
somehow luckier