for Richard Naster c. 1983
Vancouver, used bookstores,
an art-house cinema or two nearby
and the cheap diners.
Rainy winters the crime.
Some facts emerged, in situ.
When I arrived, my room was empty save
for a few shadows
that moved, as I arrived.
It seemed all right, to live
with a change of clothing and a typewriter,
and failing to, when young.
At the Railway Club, where the toy
electric train scooted the long louche bar,
outnumbered, we drank
to the White Goddess. With her,
I questioned if dream was dream.
In her boudoir I crapped in a pot that turned
into a birdcage.
The parrot appeared ok,
and flew off, like art,
wayward, denuded of its schemes. Those days
evidence, at the scene!