Last Friday night, I was in Toronto. I surrounded myself with every poet I’ve ever known and I admired their talent. I even met an old friend who was just as eccentric as last time we met, but with a hop in her step and a half-smile in her eyes. I guess that love can bring that out in anyone.
After the poetry slam, we end up in a bar celebrating Dave’s birthday. I sat in the corner and watched poet’s chatter to one another over food, shots, and beer. In that dimly lit bar, I was reminded why I love being in Toronto so much. The reason is somewhere in the romance of truly great people finding each other in places with rough edges.
Once the festivities had died down, we left and I began losing my mind. I had thought that the streets were turning sideways and I was walking on the buildings; shaking some neon-green spray paint and tagging the sidewalk with outlines of my hand print.
I hopped over every storefront and peer over the edge of the each roof, looking for my reflection in the horizon. I skipped quarters over the picture windows, hoping to see one get caught by someone who wanted to see me. Maybe we’d dive into a dark theatre and talk about Orson Welles and hear our worst impressions of his voice echo off the empty seats.
Maybe we would have sat on the dark stage with our feet spilling into a single spotlight. We could have reminded each other than praying to God will only bored her. Instead we would have decided to pray to empty electrical sockets, light switches, and to the sound of our knuckles tapping against support columns in empty houses.
When the night’s roulette wheel spun into a red morning, I found myself gambling on my romance with the city. I shook my fist and tossed my expectations to the wind. They bounced off streetcars, subway trains, and landed in the dimples of couples in morning-after glow.
This is just a few of the reasons why I love Toronto.
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