There's a well-worn scratch
just below the old brass handle
on the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue

my keys knew it as well as my feet
knew the ancient wicker welcome mat
left by sweet tenants decades before me

take the lucky seven bus to Finch
and there it's hidden behind mid-rises
obscured by traffic and ignored by most

the fading brick harmony
matches the exhausted panel walls
when the door creaks open for you

it was as if it wanted you to be there
the way the little room welcomed you
all the warmth a tired frame could offer

large enough to fit a bed
small enough to hit your head
and perfect for a lonely poet like me

but now my home is packed in boxes
and I'll never again be warmly welcomed
by the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue.

At the fatal intersection of Jopling and Tyre
you're able to look up through creaking maple arms
to see the flawlessly vertical snow raining down
falling to earth the way you convince yourself you did

your walk home is a distant everyday memory
a dream you wake from as you twist jagged keys
time to think it used to be you used to have time
and now this is your only chance to stop thinking

but today take a breath take a walk take your eyes
look around as if you do not see this everyday
because frankly my dear you haven't in years
looked really at these overgrown maples

the wooden hands that lift you and your hopes
at the fatal intersection of Jopling and Tyre.