My Second, Less Popular, and Even Less Critically Successful Canadian Novel
The woman at the little insurance company.
Georgetown, Ontario. The description
of exquisite unsaids. The turn will not
take place in an Applebee’s parking lot.
The male foil will perish in measure,
will prove more attuned. Regardless,
he or they will not say “Eat it, nit.”
No mitten too far, no Queen Street too
deconstructed. “The blue lights
spilled over the winter fields as night
gave its last bludgeon.” Sleep, sleep.
The plot thickens when the mother’s file
is discovered and there are suggestions
of New York. Just a weekend, it seemed.
Not that she really loved John Wilkes Booth.
This appeared in the July/August 2010 issue.