Beached on my tempur-pedic foam, feet balance Pinot.
I shut the window blinds, the distant lights of Bloor Street.
This summer, I will tan through osmosis.
In an old pair of shorts I found a transfer of the 509 streetcar-
when I took those two dollar vacations to see you.
We circled downtown and Lakeshore,
you butchering lines from “Manhattan”.
Because of you I prefer Diane Keaton to Muriel Hemingway.
You know all the dogs in my neighbourhood by name;
Sadie, Zelda, Zoe, and George.
They don’t wag their tails when I jog by,
sensing your ghost running beside me.
I count the minutes until the end of August,
hands clutched on the mattress raft.
Telling my tongue vanilla tastes like sand
and looks just like suntan lotion.