At the intersection of Locke and Charlton
My friend and I sign up to attend
a death café in our neighbourhood
because both of us are dying
same as the perennials and September skies
our bodies dwindle and sag
I can see it in her stride
as she walks down the alley
that connects her street to my own
where we meet mid-way, then head west
down Stanley, past my front yard
where the garden’s looking tired
but the porch still invites a quiet chat
a segue to her current status
she tells me she’s feeling off-centre
floundering in her late-60s, retired, bored
looking for options, so why not speak
about life – its ending and our grief
we pass 1, 2, 3, 4, churches
as we turn onto Locke and head north
we’ve both entered 3 of the 4 houses of worship —
yoga, reiki, concerts, holiday bazaars,
occasionally to hear the choir at St. Jo’s
but never to worship
the streets and alleys of our neighbourhood
have always been our go-to place
our comfort in hard times and good
we walk, we talk, we rant, we cry
at the top of our lungs we’ve even sung
unabashedly in the presence of trees
oddly enough, a death café hosted
at the local donut shop, where choice abounds
empty centre, cream or jelly filled, old-fashion or fritter
on the corner at Charlton where I sometimes stand alone
watch the pigeons swoop and circle, swoop
and circle high above the parish rooftops
makes me spin and whirl within
suddenly I am pollen hanging in the air
confetti drifting from great heights
non-local, intangible, transparent
genius loci of my neighbourhood
anchoring me here temporarily
at the crosswalk
wondering which direction
the wind will
carry me next
