On rue Saint-Denis I wander slowly. An old man with a large walking stick strolls in my direction. He sings a French folk song. Our eyes meet and his voice is nice. It reminds me there’s no better city come spring than Montréal. I piss on some trash in an alley. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough.   The ones who don’t fit in.   The ones I see my own face in.  
Read more
It’s barely five am and already warm on the street. The smell of spring is noticeable. I relax. I allow myself to believe winter is over. No more snow. This year was easy. But the sound of approaching footsteps wrecks my bliss. There’s always a chance for predawn violence. I prepare. 
Read more
The math is easy. My life minus drinking equals downward spiral. At least when I couldn’t see straight I had someone to go to bed with, someone to wake up for. It was beautiful. J’ai eu ma raison d’être. Now things aren’t clear. I get on a bus headed to work. Though I don’t know what for. 
Read more