when i close my eyes,
all i can see are colored spots on the back of my lids,
bursting and renewing,
like we are infinitesimal
in this small world
and i'm sitting in the car,
head turned away from the driver's seat,
legs braced against the floor to absorb jerks
as the tires jolt over manhole covers and dips in the road
the streetcar lines, strips of metal embedded in the street,
are uneven and not in line with the yellow boundaries.
i wonder who put them there.
once i was in love with this place,
but recently i'm just disenchanted with the entire thing.
streetlights flash and flicker dimly,
warm yellow illumination
but you can't erase the shadows of this neighbourhood
as the blackness seeps into the edges and under the carpet
faint yelled cusses,
loud in the silent night,
distorted by the window's glass
and i remember barely five minutes ago,
with my sneakers against grimy sidewalks.
graffiti strewn across the various brick walls,
cartoon spray-paint vegetables,
"fear" in large blue capitals, almost washed away by now
nobody ever told me this was where i grew up
but there's people
and the smell of varnish in the air as people spray chairs outside
with the sweet scent of pot hanging here
and the lit end of cigarettes in shadow-strewn hands, embers bright and red hot,
quirky shops smudged and cramped into space.
here lies home.
here lies everything i finally see.