Natural Order of Things

There are many uses for a rug; some are just criminal.

It all starts with a thread, an idea, a vision,

and maybe a need. I read poetry last week on a rug

spread out in the foyer. You are thinking: my hands,

they could have formed this terrazzo floor covered

with this rug.

Tips of two fingers missing because I tried carpentry.

Palms so rough I can refinish a piece of pine rubbing

over it. Poetry reminds me of a time when I would

listen to my old LPs. Sound turned up to eleven and

my dad would yell up, Turn that shit down!

My hands are this way because of my dad. I admired

his hands, fingers fat as hot Italian sausage—they

stung like them too—I am not bitching or running to a

therapist… that was therapy. He was my therapist; he

kept my head on straight. It did not cost me a dime or

fulfilling afternoons of encouragement. Sometimes

the order hurts—or is it the expectation of hurt? The foyer,

the center of foot traffic at Union Station in Toronto.

A building with a Greek exterior, a mixture of Medieval, Baroque

Renaissance, a hint of Rococo, built with modern materials.

A vague interpretation from my high school art history I slept

through during the slide show presentations. My art teacher,

Miss Clarke, was a huge influence on my life at that time.

She would say, let him sleep, he must be tired. At Union

Station, I placed the rug in the center of that foyer near

the big window in a spot where the light drew a picture

of the big window on the floor. From a distance, I bet

the light shone down over me and the rug like a revelation.

A steady flow of people and odors poured in—people

from all walks, and they did not seem to mind the architecture.

If they had to be somewhere, they would pass through

anything to get there. On the rug, I piled a stack of poetry

dating as far back as medieval times and began to read

aloud into the rays of light coming through the big window.

In my mind, I pictured doves in those rays. There were none!

Reading aloud, projecting out with a loud voice of concern:

Out damned spot, out. This got me the finger and a

fuck you buddy from a passerby. Not the three packs

of smokes a day or the beer, of all things, it was an aneurism

that killed my dad—a shocking unexpected guest that gave

him the finger and a fuck you buddy at a time when life was

being taken by ventilators and lockdowns. Not even the

decency of a funeral, just an extension to the fuck you buddy.

When I got to Plathe, a few goth girls crowded around, sat on

the rug, and one recorded me on her Snapchat. After reaching

so, so, so, so, I slipped in a little Dickenson: Who giants know,

with lesser men… This also got me the finger and a fuck you buddy!

Exhausted, feeling lowkey, I crooned Keats to a dwindling crowd.

An old lady stopped to listen with wonder and joy—a Hollywood-like

glow, the room went black and white. The station emptied out.

She gave me a cold Egg McMuffin, a stick of Juicy Fruit and then

forgot what she came here for. I helped her into an Uber. I rolled

up all the poetry into the rug and like a dead body carried it out

onto Front Street. It is true what they say: nobody reads it,

very few listen. I gave the rug to a homeless guy. He spread it out

over a warming grate, weighted down the corners with poetry.

I imagine he will not read it either; it would make good kindling

on cold nights.

Before that, I took some time and tore out one page with the poem

How to Triumph Like a Girl. If you have not read it, you should.

I will read this to each of my four daughters when they finish

university. I will tell them their grandparents come from an era

when ice was delivered by horse and buggy daily. Their blood

has been here since 1604.

Horses are not that romantic; they kick and bite and shit

wherever they want to. It is cheaper to buy a Ford Mustang,

but be that horse around men.

I will tell them I was raised by a strong liberal—I’ve read all

the poetry and with an open mind, sit on the fence and admire the horse.

Hot Italian sausage is good in pasta. Natural Order of Things

does not end with education. Ideals are just that, ideals at the

highest premium, someone else’s dream. Poetry and LP’s

have deeper meanings existing in the grooves on the B side.