spinners spin in the sun on a sunday somewhere with someones.
we three lived in the little appartment building
tucked in the corner of duchess street.
drank large pots of tea & spoke about
best times in cafes (victoria,
montreal, vancouver), drinking
cafe au lait & drawing birthday cards,
playing writing games, (that one day
when the waiter fed us coffees & we sat
& sat for hours„,)
these two often bring out the best,
a house needs a centre.
a kitchen table, round
which to gather, for hours.
share sips & bits
of this & that.
live on tops
raise bees. grow kombucha.
sometimes, it’s easy.
same late-night cookie cravings,
same lingering mornings,
over conversation & oatmeal.
or one likes to photograph. the other
better suited in front of a camera.
this is what happens.
bodies converge, with little music-
(here we caught them,
taking a break)
sandin graveyard. filled
by miners without families,
families who couldn’t
afford to bring their dead miner home.
& japanese-canadians interned,
& then dead, before they went home. because
it was not a home. & those that lie here,
she came back
for a visit
& a coffee.
we had a birthday
loop, round two lakes
pausing in the ghost town, the sun-
set, a hotspring’s cave, & dinner
(the only three in the diner). a toast
to fine birthdays.
a morning, just before the scattr’ing.
served with my best medicine. early light,
coffee&tea & waffles give a shimmer
to a day. a day when we were all — here.
doing what we do best. us.