Poetry

Dying in Winnipeg

Don’t read me wrong—
I plan on dying in Winnipeg

In a strange way I
posit Winnipeg is where everything always dies:

Grandfathers, clock radios, Chevrolets
faith, journalists, fine-tip pens

Earle Nelson, hockey dads
your best friend from the old street…

I will let the rush-hour dust or the blowing
snow or the dance-hall fumes fill my lungs

I will simply wait, let my side-splitting body
fail under the flattering lights in the hallway

Of the underfunded Concordia Hospital
and don’t dream of visiting

But listen, there’s a show tonight
at the legion hall

And I have half a liver left and
a hatchback with a quarter tank

I’m not hard to be had

This appeared in the October 2010 issue.