Like Music for
by Kent Bruyneel
the sounds an apartment makes at night. The buzz of the fridge
is insects busy dying in a hive beneath a deck, in Charlottetown.
The tap dripping water is the ocean break you can hear from the
bench at the crest of the small-hill in Reefer Park, in Vancouver.
The traffic outside hurrying is CNN on silver televisions and
business men sitting in dark suits in the Star Alliance Lounge
in a nervous airport, in Toronto. That dog barking lonely
is the road to Moncton, over the Confederation Bridge with finely-
tuned heads and Maritime cigarettes burning like the road ahead,
forever hard and dangling. Those faces laughing on the wall, they're
the stream exactly on (or to be precise, through) the Alberta-B.C.
border, babbling 'sort it out' or 'sorted out'. That newspaper
rustling is a chapter from the stacks I stole upstairs at the
Toronto library, read, then returned unscathed. My hands typing
are the Québécois boys playing baseball in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve,
pushing each other deeper, deeper, then gone. Sounds like the
music in airports, throughout Canada and beyond.
is never going away. So fuck them.
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