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.
Writing poems in the bar in the afternoon
doesn’t make me a cliche (well, maybe it does).
But it does make me hate this city a little less,
summoning words in the quiet
before the drinkers arrive and music
from former decades distracts.
Oh yes. The door shut against
the phonewalkers and loudtalkers,
the ever-presence of people and cars
and constant droning citynoise.
Here some of those jagged edges
are rubbed smoother,
some of that god-damned citygrit
is flicked off. And fucked off.
David Bowie is dead.
And we’re drinking beer
beneath a canopy of velvet oil paintings
and muted red light, condensation spreading
across the canvas of the old front window.
In the dark we drink to Starman
and Ashes to Ashes and Let’s Dance.
We drink and sing and toast
music’s unfathomable loss,
bitter tastes in our mouths,
in our hearts.
Later, leaving into cold and stars,
unsteady fist-pumps to Life on Mars.
Faded flags stand as reminder of better times at The Kensington Cornerstone Restaurant in Kensington Market on Dundas. The bar closed last fall. I’ve never been.
What strikes me: The pale yellow, grey dirty white, and sunstroked red shreds of fabric hanging there, hanging on. Tatters of their once-glorious selves, remembering that last celebration. Mourning.
Still, the grey winter light makes the dissolving colours vibrant.