Chris and Di among the paupers

Princess Diana once waltzed through
the intersection at Queen and Bathurst,
fleeting sunshine on a Saturday and we
loved her smile and swish; and
hoboes gather round to worship her and we
tolerate hoboes here, but
really we want them dead;
in this city we tolerate everyone and
we hate everything:
weekend afternoons run by
sidewalk punk-freaks and ephemeral
ecstasy in hot veins that we struggle to
accept in vain

fuzzy J’s an assassin in front of a store, in front of
a crimson door on the corner, a
king of the score who
winks at Di as she’s passing by;
he’s handing out high-fives and more

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St. Christopher’s alive at
Queen and Bathurst, below
a super-sized poster of Britney Spears
(another delightful Di)
his healing hands on a hot forehead;
he notices you drinking
a cold black coffee,
eyes and face so teary and red.

he says,
in my house you will get
warm food and a hot chocolate
no exceptions here
- I don’t tolerate hungry strangers

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now Christopher’s stuck downtown
he’s got a full house and
a long way to go, before we
forget the dead princess
and pray for the living saint.