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Ryan Bird
The Prick
Bay and Bloor,
the city’s financial hub
and skyscraper wind-tunnel, all
rolled into one.
a flattened
homeless man props his
head up with a
Tim Horton’s coffee
cup. I swear, I’d fold out a
twenty, forty for him
then and there, but then…
I’m sure that the
hero’s pin that they’d
surely pin
upon my puffed
breast
would just prick me. and I’m
sort of a bleeder.
torrents, and rivers,
my friends.
dykes
would be required.
not to mention the scores
of nuns
flocking in pilgrimages,
to tend to the sickly
souls, foolhardy
and desperate
enough to drink from
the murky and clotted banks,
of the river Ryan.
I guess it is best for all
concerned
if I just keep
walking. |
| Ryan Bird once left a bowl of cereal
out so long that it became crispy again. He then ate it. He is
recovering well, but can not longer smell flowers. Please, somewhere in
your travels, stop and smell them once for him. email: Ryan
Bird |
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