How fast the Queen Streetcar
Shudders like a spaceshuttle,
Down glinting tracks, empty streets tunnel,
Racing past ghost cars in phantom traffic
every shudder, crack and clack
wheels on rails, silent
Smell of salt from your red velvet seat,
like a spaceshuttle to the Beaches.
Don’t let the Beaches make you think of beaches,
it’s not,
And the salt isn’t the strand, it’s mild hours old urine.
The Beaches is a cement eternity from home,
Past shadow fronts of storefronts,
Living room windows gone to sleep,
Closed restaurant cemeteries, tombstone tables,
and parks enchanted forests you shouldn’t enter at night,
under guiding street lamps, next to taxis,
contributing some headlight
You can’t see the lake glimmer, wave, crash,
and you can’t smell the salt and sand in the water,
because you never go down that street,
because you’re getting to somewhere,
because the streetcar shudders fast but it never comes,
and it’s a cold dark cement walk to bed.
Coming from before the void,
Downtown, cacophony of loud lights,
Volume turned up on streetlight,
bar light, offices never turn off light, traffic light, night light,
Every red lipsticked mouth laughs tumbling out of the bar,
Home a vague memory and more vague future, everyone
stumbles into
each other on heels
The subway is there
but you can’t see it in the tunnel underground
And it doesn’t go where you’re going.
The only thing open this hour
is Cafe Crepe on Queen,
it’s past last call
but the diner goldens crepes
strawberries and caramelizes your plate
to ward off the hangover.
