7:30 am in Urban Paradise

I’ve been living in downtown Toronto temporarily for the past month or so
as our condo by the water  is being repaired from water damage due to a slow leaking pipe ( water amd words can wear things down – specifically copper and wood flooring this time  )
I miss the calm of the lake . It’s relatively placid there most of the time , although the city is alive with its own varied, busy, and sometime tense excitement. It’s harder to really really relax at night with all the sirens and  nightlife noises at Yonge and Bloor but the city is inspiring in a different way. It seems like I’m going back to those  city walks I used to have in my 20’s and seeing them with different eyes now, older eyes but also with new younger eyes . The eyes of the 20 & 30-something condo dwellers in the vertical beating heart of the city . They’re all clicking away at their iPhones and Blackberrys while walking, just like me .
It’s amazing . Never thought I’d be into the urban lifestyle again and especially living it out loud like this .

7:30 am  in Urban Paradise

7:30 am and the city is almost quiet
Just a few cars in the street .
Been off  and on
through the night
I’m up for a drink
and something to eat .
Listen to the hum ,
and see the light
rising higher .
Tower lights are  on .
The moment is sweet .
I fall back into sheets
a willing participant
of meditation and sleep .

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Yonge Street

Yonge Street

Empty stores
for lease
My steps passing
bookstores ,
crowded lit cages of diners , and vacant  doors .
The second floors sing
with promise of neon massage .
Hanging socks and laundry ,
clothes lines,
are up on second  floors
as well.
Someone  is  home
above the
storefronts drying out
on a weeknight
all in a yellow glow .
The condos will be
coming
and soon
no one will know
what this city block
looked like
In the  1900’s

City

Image

Urbane

City
Surrounded by concrete,
lights,
and a crescent moon,
the obsolescence
of hearts confounds.
The milquetoast of regret
seizes,
and shattered glass
repentance
cuts a tear
of cerium oxide rust
in the soul.
It’s imperfect with
the screech of feather
cutting air,
as crackpots entertain
trained monkeys
on bandwidths,
while we engage
in the urbane .

From “Persephone’s Call” by PWChaltas