Journey Home

Only fifteen minutes late, the train has left and
I am going home*

Journey face

Sometimes facebook asks me a myriad of unnecessary questions. My dear human beings, here are my poetic responses to the top three most observed facebook interrogations on the top left hand of my browser:

1. What are your favourite sports teams?

Uh.. sportsing… balls…
in the net…
oh! oh! WIN; point… uh.. pointsing?
I can sing!
I used to play basketball, mostly because if I didn’t there wasn’t enough
for a team.
I don’t know if I knew the rules. I received a good number
of yellow cards
and hurt my ankle.
I lose/let down/feel anxious

2. What are your favourite movies?
I refuse
and yet
I have surely judged (while lost in the facebooksphere)
by movies
the quality of a man.

3. What is your home town?

Based upon the definition, that home is where the heart is,
My heart is speckled with an attachment of which I am unsure is valid: Bristol.
In stereotypes and a short person perspective.

My body was moved to Borden,
and my heart, already half-formed, was dragged
I resent what happened to it
and feel small and sad that only one reaches out from there to me.
Still, it did enormous growing that I am still deciphering now.

I may have left a part of heart
in Caronport
and took with me life and frustration

I found myself a Winnipeg.
She is bold and strange and loves all the small dust things;
she forms them into bright pottery and dancing.
I have a gravity to play with her for longer

my heart takes trips to Kitchener-Waterloo
and gets hugely exhausted and refuelled once a year
by a bunch of humans with a particular perspective
of politic, faith, and art.

*My heart feels strangely pangy
when I cannot call my parents – and now that they live
in Saskatoon
my heart embroiders there as well.



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