Aaron Kreuter

Looking out the window late Friday night,
the ninth floor apartment a watchtower
on the border between downtown and the suburbs,
wondering about the cars going by:
suburban teenage Jews perhaps, like I once was,
driving home from the city,
the corner of Sainte-Catherine and Saint-Laurent
carpeted in thousands of glinting watch batteries—
or have I fallen through the cracks
of this weird night (three am and unable
to sleep, the city churning below me),
and am watching my mother’s car
return from my father’s small apartment on University,
chili on the stove, a music stand, clarinet reeds
sprinkled around the room like maple keys
(they fell in love at the symphony, hands
grasped in a tumult of horns, icy sidewalks);
or it’s my father himself, taxiing home
from Friday night dinner at my mother’s
family duplex (not far from here),
a meal to mark the end of the week;
there goes my uncle,
then eighteen, blasted on ’71 pot
and in love again, The Beatles
on the radio, so full of the world
my grandmother’s basement
was never going to contain him.

Aaron Kreuter is the author of the 2016 poetry collection Arguments for Lawn Chairs (Guernica Editions), and the forthcoming short story collection You and Me, Belonging (Tightrope Books). He lives in Toronto.