VANCOUVER, AFTER THE RAIN
after Brad Cran and Gillian Jerome
It knocked at the window,
and you didn’t let it in. You complain
about how they painted the clouds the
you complain they painted the
clouds at all, but the wash
left grey paint all over
the cement. Flyers and signs
gather at the sewer drain and
put a cast around the corner
like the time you broke your
ankle. You drained English Bay and
carried it in a bucket to the shore,
where the sand sealed. You
collected the doors to hang, left
the cars for insects.
When the time came, you packed
your short-shorts, sailor hat,
the past, a book for reading and brought
a six-pack to drink the ride.
You and me, we jumped
in the U-haul, drove east until
I felt easy. It rains here too, but
someone painted the clouds purple
and the rain spreads his ashes,
even though we never asked him to.
For a brief moment, you thought
it was sunny, but that was just me
painting the sky a different colour.
From Davie Street Translations (2012) by Daniel Zomparelli.