The Diachronic Barber Pole Observations of a Recovering Hockey Exile

Mais Tu N’es Pas un Vrai Québécois

February 14, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles

before a pass or fail
            shoot or score
          love and die
before I assimilate truncate francate

I cry crawl wail
weep smile breathe deep

    in my Québec crib
the salt air fibrous, the language
the food (shrimp)
sounds (Scott)
and smells (gulls)

these form the coherence
platforms, lenses of reality

the border flags (flaps)
and macroeconomic hogwash
owe nothing

all is rock, sea, sun
  and cold, cold air

this, more than anything
          you say imply curse  

      impose
             is who I am
   now drop the puck
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