Hole on Bloor St.
An improbable majesty's lent
to the shabby buildings on Bloor St.
by a Cheshire sun as it simpers sallowly down
There's a strange phenomenon here
though very few can see it
even the pigeons tip-toe delicately around
There's a hole on Bloor St.
where Rebecca used to be
for a block or two around the Future Bakery
Oh, you should have seen the kindnesses
she did for strangers on the street
If your life's like a thin membrane that's
stretched around some chaos, you can
join the atmosphere here where people mill,
seemingly equally lost
But could she understand what her life was?
Do any of us?
We're busy. We're busy. We're busy
Death stands like a strange new structure
that birds use without question to fly by
to rest on, to nest in
But as the Anishnabe guy said,
beneath his breath: Be happy, be happy
on your journey, Rebecca
Rebecca filled a space in the world
but you can lose yourself
Her laughter still weaves threads in between
poverty and wealth, poverty and wealth
There's a hole on Bloor St. where
Rebecca used to be
Peopled by those who construct a common
memory. Her face blooms with enthusiasm
for the power of words and simple melody