The stripe on the sleeve of a man with a mop
who is waiting on the corner for the light to be
not-red; stop. The flag in a storefront window;
stop. The cap on the kid in the stroller; stop.
The mailbox near the Chua Linh-son Temple;
stop. Last year’s rose on this year’s vine, wilted
by the fire station fence; stop. The cherry flash
atop the cop car, here now, hurrying; stop.
Where am I going? When do I go there?
What’s my name?
Stop.
♦
Joe Fiorito is a Toronto journalist. He won the National Newspaper Award for columns in 1995. He is the author of six books, including a best-selling memoir, The Closer We Are To Dying. His novel, The Song Beneath The Ice, won the City of Toronto Book Award in 2003. His most recent book, Rust Is A Form of Fire, is a poetic meditation on the streets of the city.
♦♦♦
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