I write about the middle aged
bald guy, giving the finger
to the citibike business bro,
holding a pack of Pabst.
Or about the cold air in August,
when we ran down Ossington
screaming “Feral Girl Summer!”
Maybe I do it to pass the time, or
to relive feelings I can’t forget.
To me it’s all the same -
words pouring onto the sidewalk,
pieces of my Milky’s iced coffee
with painful oat milk affliction.
I write because I’m always bitter,
or because my memories melt?
But mostly because I want you
to read this, instead of me.