The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
As I lie down on Toronto’s concrete,
the smell of green, buried farmland rises up;
at the public fountain where I bathe with pigeons
he freshens some fragments of my soul.
Along sidewalks thick with people he leads me.
Even though I push my found belongings through metaphors
of a different age, I still get the poetry:
his rod and his staff—things I’ve only seen as a kid on TV—
they strangely comfort me.
A meal is prepared for me by volunteers.
My head, oiled by unwashed hair,
overflows with ideas—
I got a lot of time to think.
Surely goodness and mercy follow me;
I just hope they catch up soon and more often.
Still, I’m sure I dwell in the house of the Lord,
because sometimes I manage to feel myself at home.