mont-royal and marquette and
rain, always rain and the
black-sweatered beggar across the street,
head-shaven handsome, lets it
fall and doesn't bat an eye, ignores
his empty change dish and the rain and
seems like the cross-legged
siddhartha of the plateau while
on the coffee shop radio émilie proulx sings
toute seule, toute seule and
traffic doesn't pause to
notice this or the stoic
cross-topped mountain
shrouded in mist our
senses grown dull even as the
blue-sky edges out again and
alan's ghost walks past me now,
messy-haired, bearded and smiling
smiling, nodding say hey buddy,
hey, keep going, it's good,
tell them, everyone you see,
tell them
it's gonna be
alright.
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