Some things take long to come, yet like the wind
on a hot day, blow by at long last and are welcome.
Patience is the cord. Patience is the string.
Patience is the tune. Patience gives reason.
And it gives, nearby Weston Road & Finch, release —
Release to the born sun-lovers whose strong hearts
pound drum-like for a season stifling without wind.
Out the polished doors of their loved sedans, similar drums.
Skin taut drums whose beats spread on the vast western night
accompanying old time syncopations that slide inside the deck:
Some soca, some rub-a-dub, some lover’s rock . . . All
out to elongate and make crushed velvet of the dark.
Those in the fourteen floors of the brown towers are made ready.
They hear in this broadcast confirmation that summer is coming nearer,
And with it, the time when windows unlike skirts will stay rolled down.
They welcome, up from felted boxes bolted in trunks,
a prelude to muskier nights when every brick,
breathless and alive with a tropical beat,
will echo hearts in a chutney of horns that call
and are answered in hips, floor by floor.
They will forget that winter bit, and poverty too,
seeing as none halts summer’s launch, and cannot
for those who want to detect geraniums on the night air;
those who find that on this bridge all suffering gives way;
Darkness gives way; And everywhere spirits leave their corners,
to dance as if there are no windows and not a soul watches.
They feel the white and unforgiving season as it greens and at long last
the warm breeze circles their feet. Their hips rock in celebration, for who,
Who can help but be informed by the tart and sweaty softness of another warm body?