This poem was written in Toronto many years ago. The site was Queen Street West near Bathurst.


The man lies on his back on the sidewalk

at the bottom of the bank steps,

hands by his side, motionless,

probably drunk

(it is a custom of the corner)

 possibly dying.


She notices

other people notice

no one approaches.


She thinks of that sick

mouth to her mouth resuscitation

disgusting her reluctant,


she hurries on

to her destination two blocks away

where she telephones police

and tells them,

her fresh pink lips almost touching the black plastic receiver,  

of her concern.




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