The German Restaurant
They vacuum the German Restaurant;
put chairs up around us,
calculate the cost of a triple order of sour cream,
then throw us out on Queen Street
where there is no air conditioning –
the wine in take-out cups.
“You’ll attract the Police.”
Back at your apartment, Dylan’s on the headsets.
Your video is walking over ashtrays and smiling.
“Stop it. I don’t feel like reading your lips.”
You’ve had enough wine to lie down on the kitchen floor;
the only cool place in Toronto, maybe the world.
Wish again that you hair didn’t curl like that.
Continue your theory on the effects of my boyfriend’s religion.
Say again, say how, “YOU AND I ARE THE ONLY
DECENT PEOPLE LEFT IN THIS WORLD.”