Drunk Dads On Bikes

This city’s half collar—
half middle class in squalor.
We get called home,
with the “Rocky” holler.
There’s cobble on a few streets,
‘cause our ancestors were wannabes.
Our Papa built the land fleet,
straight through the heart of every Cree.
And now we sit by windows,
while we fight the good fight.
And we don’t dare leave the post,
‘till we out-drink the daylight.
And I laugh when I see,
All the —drunk dads on bikes,
when the afternoon turns milky orange
right before their dinner time.
Some work for the city hall.
Some of them don’t work at all.
But we all look the same,
with a front tire wobbling,
in unassuming hats,
with romantic beards
—and the silhouette of little buildings,
entangled like our Guinevere’s.
We’ll ride on past the dock’s,
where the Yankee’s park their yachts,
past the War of 1812
—the one never reached us,
on the street named for a band,
beside the hockey rink,
that bustles on Fridays night,
and kills itself in morning pink.
Ride on past the butcher’s,
and the Italians,
past the houses made like ships,
And the five dollar sandwiches.
Stop at the Food Basic’s,
cross to the liquor store,
grab a bottle for our girl,
visualize her at the door.
Ride up until Montreal,
Take a right and keep your wits.
Pass the coffee shop,
sacrificed for gentrification.
We’re almost at the breaking line,
where pretty turns and winks it’s eye,
says, “I don’t go to Boys Town,”
we laugh and bid her our goodbyes.
We pass the boxing gym,
And the diamond beside it,
where the pitchers sing their hymns
against the wall with leather mitts.
Take a left we’re nearly there,
pass Petey in the yard,
pray for his brothers finger
and the door that cut it off,
on the boat that crossed the ocean,
and docked in Halifax.
That finger made the money,
That finger saved his ass.
Open up the yellow garage.
We made it home alright.
We helped build this city, baby
—we’re drunk dads on bikes.