L itter strewn streets and rusted vehicle chassis

O pen doors, streets paved with the gold of city life

N egative thoughts clouding people's minds

D ays turn to nights, the beautiful full moon

O paque sky, clouded with smog

N ever ending

Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.

He died from a massive
insult to the brain
from alcohol poisoning ; Dylan Thomas

I say he was already dead
and couldn't stand to go on breathing
So he put an end to it the only
way he knew how

Poisoning : slow , so if your're reluctant
you can bide your time
and ease into it
You know , cross that line between living
and dead
You can do it and not even
be aware that you've done it
How easy

The only question is why ?

But I already know why

New York City . . . the where

I know :
The how
The where
And the why

He was really murdered you know
He was condemned by committee
Sentenced to death by poisoning

There was a general consensus ,
The refusal to mourn the death , by fire ,
of a child of London

to meet a man

with no past

.

of no recent past

better a man

.

that doesn’t call

past what is

.

present

that knows

his tenses

.

to meet a man

with a past that

.

made him

vulnerable yet

.

secure to take

risks in spite of

.

to be that man

to be one that

.

adds and not

steals to be a

.

man to be

of a man

.

to be

i’m

Y e s   o f f i c e r   I   c a n   r e c a l l  
l a s t   n i g h t   I   s a w   M i s s   K e l l y .
S h e   w a v e d   t o   m e   f r o m ,  
i n t e r i o r   o f   f i n e   c a r r i a g e .
I n s i d e   s h e   s u p p e d   o n   w i n e  
a n d   f e d   o n   l u s c i o u s   g r a p e .
a n d   t h e   m o n e y   s h e   w a s   p a s s e d ,  
d i d   n o t   d i s p a r a g e .

B u t   s h e   p a s t   m e   v e r y   q u i c k l y  
a n d   f u l l y   d r u n k   w a s   I .
I   f i n d   i t   h a r d   t o  
r e m e m b e r   a n y   m o r e .  
B u t   t h e   o w n e r   w a s   a   m a n   o f   w o r t h ,  
f o r   h i s   c o a c h m a n   w a s   w e l l   c l a d -
a n d   t h e r e   w a s   a   g o l d   i n s i g n i a ,  
p r i n t e d   o n   t h e   c a r r i a g e   d o o r .

M y   f i n a l   r e c o l l e c t i o n ,  
w a s   t h e   s m i l i n g   f a c e   o f   s h e .
I   d o   b e l i e v e   s h e   t h o u g h t  
t h a t   s h e   h a d   m a d e   a   d e c e n t   s c o r e .
B u t   t h e   t h o u g h t   o f   h e r   t r a n s p o r t e d  
t o   h e r   d e a t h   b e f o r e   m y   e y e s .
I   a m   o f   m i n d   t o   c h a n g e   m y   w a y s  
a n d   n o   l o n g e r   s h a l l   I   w h o r e .

T h i s   w a y   o f   l i f e   i t   s e e m s  
h a s   o f t e n   p u t   u s   g i r l s   a t   r i s k ,
I t   h a s   a l w a y s   b e e n   t h i s   w a y
f o r   a   l a d y   o f   t h e   n i g h t .
B u t   o n   s e e i n g   M a r y   K e l l y  
c u t   u p   a n d   l e f t   f o r   a l l   t o   s e e
h a s   m a d e   m e   w a n t   t o   l e a v e  
m y   L o n d o n   a n d   t a k e   f l i g h t .

I   a m   s o r r y   t h a t   I   h e l p   y o u   n o t  
w i t h   w h a t   I   r e c o l l e c t -
f o r   I   p r a y   y o u   c a t c h   t h i s   f e l l o w  
a n d   h a n g   h i m   u p o n   h i g h .
B u t   I   t r e a d   t h i s   p l a c e   n o   l o n g e r ,  
i t ? s   n o t   w o r t h   i t   n o w   I   s e e .
S o   a l l   t h a t   I   h a v e   l e f t   t o   s a y ,  
d e a r   P o l i c e m a n   i s   g o o d b y e .

I f   y o u   n e e d   t o   s p e a k   a g a i n   t o   m e ,  
h e r e   i s   m y   n e w   a d d r e s s .
I   w i l l   n e v e r   m o r e   s e e   L o n d o n   t o w n ,  
n o t   e v e n   a s   a   t r i p p e r .
F o r   I   k n o w   t h a t   M a r y   K e l l y ,  
c o u l d   o f   e a s i l y   b e e n   m e -
w h o   h a d   f a l l e n   t o   t h e   b e a s t ,  
c a l l e d   ? J a c k   t h e   R i p p e r .

My eyes meet yours
Our palms are wet
How much closer can we get

Your furrowed brow
Frustration grows
How much longer 'til we go

I smell the sweat
The love
The waste
No need to have so much haste

The time stands still
You just can't wait
So much to anticipate

My heart does soar
We start to move
Everything is running smooth

There are no words
We cannot speak
Concentration at its peak

There's so much noise
Yet not a sound
It's rush hour on the Underground

Closing time.
     Cold marble steps, brisk evening air.
Small cappuccinos,
     hot chocolate with cream you didn't ask for.
The Canadian Embassy
     casting glittering lights across the fountain waters.
Faint indigo sky,
     laughing about the Renaissance,
falling asleep on the Bakerloo.