Don’t read me wrong —
I plan on dying in Winnipeg
In a strange way I
posit Winnipeg is where everything always dies:
Grandfathers, clock radios, Chevrolets
faith, journalists, fine-tip pens
Earle Nelson, hockey dads
your best friend from the old street…
I will let the rush-hour dust or the blowing
snow or the dance-hall fumes fill my lungs
I will simply wait, let my side-splitting body
fail under the flattering lights in the hallway
Of the underfunded Concordia Hospital
and don’t dream of visiting
But listen, there’s a show tonight
at the legion hall
And I have half a liver left and
a hatchback with a quarter tank
I’m not hard to be had
