At the noose knot of Kingston Road, a Scarborough motel
garrottes the view of the bluffs.
A ladder-teetering housekeeper has slotted black letters
into the marquee sign:
come in and stay
for the rest of your life
$29 a night
Ah, home. The good ol’ parallaxing Hav-a-Nap,
its gloaming, slouched,
half-burnt-out arrow sign and its tender hip dysplasia,
like a suburban goldendoodle.
This breed of low-rent, low-rise units is where clichéd thugs
operate at cross purposes, and flare out
in friendly fire. Marriages euphemistically “fall apart,” though
buried at sea = slung into low tide. Lying’s an art.
Ontarioabandonedplaces.com offers photographic proof
that, paradoxically, it’s wear
that keeps our homes in good repair.
The way weight strengthens our joints.
daily, weekly, hourly
Lie with someone else’s other in the afternoon while the lake laps over beached pike.
The goal of life is, come hell or high water,
to get our wish. We never would have thrived if what
we thought was in the bag never rived.