In the alleyway, beside the camera shop, she walks determinedly away. All sway of hips and flow of clothes. Away toward something better.
Toronto’s alleys are veins trailing from its beating heart. Where debris collects, where life travels through. Where things start and end.
An abandoned paperback, left to the elements on a fire escape. King Street West, near Bathurst.
Bright Street: a vibrant name for a lovely short street, curving upward to Queen East.
The best part: The rogue bungalow with a turquoise door. One floor was enough. So nah.
Above, the rumbling and roaring is muted.
Below, tired engines get respite from the sun, the shadows of its steel bones flickering across the faces of blinking passengers.
If you need to use the bathroom at a restaurant in the city, you’ll need to go down some steps. Probably somewhat dangerous steps: uneven, unforgiving, unnerving. Then probably down a dark hallway, too. Past storage cupboards, unmarked closets, supplies. And when you finally find the bathroom, you might change your mind.
Watching all the marks made
on a home over a decade
be etched out: plastered and
painted over. Whitewashed.
Can feel like a cleansing.
Can feel like an erasing.