grit-side of the gardiner

she can’t see
hues of magenta and marigold
rising above Centre Island cottonwoods
blocked by Bentway 33
retreating as she has to the concrete
carapace— cars crowding overhead 

laughable eviction notices skitter
among warped wheels, stripped-down bikes scavenged for parts
like too many friends on the stroll watching for rolled-down windows
half-open set-aside suitcases empty
of everything except envisioned escape
urban jetsam strewn over river rock tossed about
like the ragged pages of the paperback borrowed
from the Little Free Library on Adelaide

her abode feeble
flaps held together by royal
blue polyethylene, grommets, and spindly twine
bin of treasures sequestered in a dark corner — secretly
stashing newly discovered coat, HB pencil, and treats for Countach

muscle reluctantly contoured to folded cardboard mattress
demarcation of days blurred
by brown-bagged bootlegging
demon — loud voice  arm swinging  cigarette butt-bearing — held
at bay in the blackout only
to return with seven more

she longs for the lost luxury of eggplant lasagna
amidst endless stream of PB&J sandwiches left by do-gooders
like wine vinegar offered to the cursed man dying
mouth dried up tongue stuck to roof— unbearable hunger remains

locked safely inside their Karma Condos
the octothorpe orchestra tunes
its QWERTY keys peristeronic
pecking thumbs armed
with hashtags at the ready, respond
only with laconic lethargy — voices halted
by disordered teeth, yellowed fingers, skittish eyes

her unbreakable imprint of sacredness— still resides

outside under rush hour, one who could see
the HB slips sketchbook in between essentials
at her feet— a few rays of morning mercies fall
upon her real-time pencil lines, recall
Rembrandt’s sketch of the prodigal—
vigorous, unleashed with a rapidity
mirroring at-a-moment’s-notice reality
of life under the expressway

Written by Scott Moore
Illustrated by Landon Wideman

Inspired April 2020