so the eight month countdown begins
in the city of skyscrapers
so tall that the neighbourhood sidewalks
have never felt sunlight—only summer rain,
and the finest of Canadian winter snow
along with the pounding of everyday footsteps
"show me maps which show me the way home,"
he says to no one in particular, just another
in the city of wanderers
alive with seventy-six languages
telling 2.65 million stories, all of which
can be found in the same great book—our book
she finds laughter in the smile of the stranger
at the fruit stand by the stucco apartment, found
in the city of chances
(it's smaller than you would think)
taken on a whim, inspired by stories passed down
and sometimes just the spark of desperation
he sees every tearful airport goodbye
(and sometimes the more tearful hellos)
in the city of reunions
by coincidence or chance? set against a backdrop
of once-upon-a-time strangers falling in love
in the bars of basements and rooftops alike
she listens to a cacophony of hopeful ideas,
the excitement spilling over onto sidewalk adventures
in the city of genius
often found in glass-housed workshops on the 59th floor,
but also alive in the spaces between
in the moments separating the words thought and spoken
as for me? you will find me, listening
just another, eavesdropping in quiet wonder
in the city of storytellers
recounting tales in Queen Street coffee shops
filled with the soundtrack of our heartbeats—
us, the luckiest of the lucky ones
