I wanted to take my glasses off,
so I could see Christmas,
in May,
when the sharp angles and lines,
of Alberta Street,
became defined by the cement architects of
a city no longer bursting with spring,
but settling into it's
corners,
the afterthoughts of flowers,
as common,
as the old peeling tattoos,
on timber poles,
while the winter dribbled away,
into paw-printed studded puddles,
and drains,
the all of the sudden,
crowded clamoring of ideals,
heard once, the muted din of the front-alley,
bars of winter rolled up their metal sleeves,
and slapped out the tables,
welcoming,
without pomp,
the simple fact,
of a summer of
warm microbrews,
sweltering armpits,
of humanity,
baring,
the naked smile,
of been there,
experience that,
wrinkling,
in creases
permanently
the faded blue ink,
of a jumping deer.
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