There are the usual leavings:
thawing mud littered with Gauloises packs and dog shit,
piles of filthy snow in the shade.
Optimistic seagulls poke around
on St. Catherine Street, of all places,
as if they’ll find something worthwhile
this far from the water.
It’s a sunny morning and that’s enough for me
to ignore the chill, huddle in my coat
with the survivors of ice storms and language wars.
Our chairs in the sidewalk café turn like sunflowers
to follow the warmth.
There are more stories about relatives who
pulled up stakes to head west or south,
head offices closed.
I left years ago and so say nothing.
I’m just here long enough to collect
favorite foods to take home,
to indulge in a little nostalgic glow
with each mouthful of bagel or smoked meat.
My mother always has a pile of clippings for me:
an op-ed piece by a high school chum,
a concert review of a singer I like.
I read it all, but with less longing now.
I take guilty pleasure in my muscular American money,
and have learned not to boast
about how early I can start my garden,
as we sit here in the weak sun.
The season is about to shift:
but just now the moment
holds a promise of ongoing,
the solidarity of another winter outlived.
