Picnic in the Median

by Bardia Sinaee

Bardia Sinaee is a poet in Toronto.

Love, there’s nowhere to sit. Not in my
cramped room with books strewn on the ground. Too bad we can’t fly
like those northbound geese lined up like teeth in the sky.

The unfathomable machine that owns
everything and, for two days of the week, loans
us back to ourselves, has planted bags of bones

in every street, so love, there’s nowhere to sit.
There’s no room for our checkered cloth, so hold on to it
until we find a patch of grass separate

from the traffic lanes, somewhere not too far
because if we had the money for a car
to drive out to the sticks, we’d spend it at a bar

where, with two pints and a plate of chips, they’ll
let us sit. The public parks are all for sale
and somebody’s installed a middle rail

on almost every bench
to keep from sleeping there the people who can stand the stench
of exhaust. But love, if we could take a wrench

to the machine and rewind the worn gears
of human sprawl to when all this was corn, deer
and alders, we’d find ourselves left out, ’cause we weren’t born here.

 


Bardia Sinaee is a poet in Toronto.

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