JUNE POETS

“Toronto.”

The word taps the tongue like salted bagels buttered hot on Baldwin at dawn,

toasted to a ‘t’ at the top.

“ToRonTo.”

The name is a basket of consonants in Kensington

haggling for wicker and kumquat and duck.

“TOR! ON! TO!”

It’s the repeat of Moodie’s gun at noon from Montgomery’s,

when rebellion cracks a wrinkle in Canada’s Upper half.

Listen:  “Toronto.”

It’s the staccato of stilletos at Eglinton:  the Office lets out to lunch.

“Toronto.” Hear it?

The sonorous call of the Huron in the mist of afternoon all along the Humber: 

“Oak tree rising”—before the diaspora come flooding in.

“Traawna.” 

It’s the nasal drawl of teens at the mall, lazing in mannered,

deceiving festivals of smoke.  School’s out. They’ll just not be adults yet.

“To-ron-to.”

It’s the sound the sunset makes at King and Bay,bouncing from tower to ’scraper to spire,

leaving echoes of gold on the rim of Mammontown.

“Toronto.”

Prairie people and the rest of Canada love to hear you say it means

old word for “Cotu,” Centre of the Universe. Trust me. Try it.

“Address? Toronto.”

Adopted city of over four million, some pulled by choice, some pushed by fate.

A few will eschew sleep tonigh and trawl its corridors instead.

“State of Mind? Toronto.”

Neither a legato sound, nor a liquid name,

but a drumming beat. “Toronto.”