In the fall we drift along
the tree-lined streets
of unfamiliar places.
Leaves cover everything:
sleepy cars and houses
sidewalks and our coats.
My son drags his foot
beside the curb
like a street-cleaner
but even he admits
we could never hope
to hide these dead
in all the sewer grates.
Joggers and young girls
with dogs pass by
and look at us as if to say
‘you don’t fit our decor.’
The leaves, uncaring,
fall in slow time
wordless to the earth.
I used to think
that streets like these
were only meant for lovers
and their lonely ways,
but how wrong can one be
about yellow, red, and green?
In the fall they drift along
the tree-lined streets.
The man is crunching memories
as he watches his son
run on ahead
laughing with the wind
and leaves.
………………………………………………………..
An ’80s poem and memory of a ‘leafing’ expedition in the Garneau area with my then-young son.