the elderly take the water taxi over false creek.
they are practicing a payment to the ferryman.
the couple two benches over kiss as though worried the water’s wake
will overtake them. their tongues are rivers. their meanders
and bends tell me a number, an age.
I’ve been pulled here, beneath this bridge,
made to see the cars crossing twice, refracted against the water.
A dark rumbling: there is a subway running below the reflections,
below the water. the people have replaced the salmon here.
I have travelled from coffee shop to coffee shop.
this business of staying awake is a way to practice being
well. There is an economy of wellness in this city.
my work is to chronicle, and to do this I must experience,
and to do this I must wake up.
my phone pulses:
a second heartbeat against my leg;
it is an alarm of sorts.
