and if i felt my shoes 

walk on without me, in 

the image of a mid-night puddle 

as the late car streaks by slowly 

would it be so bad to stop 

and watch them go? 

i turn right and jump up 

on the final step—slip slightly 

at the peak, a glimpse 

of possible concussions. 

whether they watch me or not 

changes little—not their red light or my green. drive on if you dare and run me down—you, the individual. show the world your passion. 

the individual behind me passes on, one of many. what a shame 

for him i guess, not me— 

it would be odd to die. 

too bad for the chump though. 

when my feet ahead hit dundas 

the world comes into focus, 

fractured segments stitched together in an uneasy quilt. so many 

patches, the individuals, 

all asleep inside; save for a few 

poor souls beside me, and myself still on the way. 

all this talk of blankets 

makes me feel the night 

behind my eyelids; good as such that i arrive at home. but there 

is noise in the living room,

laughing; voices; nights i missed and did not live, rubbed deeply. 

rubbing my eyes deeply 

does not dislodge the night— i simply sit and let it simmer waiting for the dark to die down.