Souls,

all of you,

every last one,

down to the smallest comma

of smoke that breathes

pause into expression,

Come,

occupy these concrete-ended

benches in Queen’s Park.

Go on to every passerby

about heaven’s weather.

Feed the squirrels.

Admire the big, bronze colonialist

on horseback

in a way that no living body

in good faith can.

Shoot the breeze so softly

that the city winds a little down

and stops hurling its human stuff

past as if hurricanes were in season.

Souls,

all these suits and ties and skirts and students

want to remember.

It’s their job.

They keep up late hours at it.

Reward them with a memory

of your love

so that when it comes

to the test

they may answer graciously

with no surprises

like someone with a very good idea

of how it all goes.