Sweat, cologne and floor dried liquor consumed my nose.
The strobe lights pounded my pupils, contracting and expressing in every strobe.
My arms rest against the formerly sticky counter as a I wait my turn to inebriate.
Our booth hadn’t changed a bit.

This world is unforgiving. That is the first ever thing Marco learned. He learned that the world we live in offers redemption to only those who can afford it and laughs in the faces of those who can’t. Marco was an interesting kid to say the least, in school while students were outside playing on the playground, he would sit back and observe each and every kid.

Like the Bow River, flowing North to South,
empty whiskey bottles fall from North to South in
an explosion of broken glass and blanket lies.
Whiskey flows and burns the throat, everything flows.
Flowing is the root of it, the singular truth.

My favorite depression meal starts with me
briskly snatching a cream-coloured ceramic bowl
from the bottom stack of mis-matched plates and tupperware,
collectable hand-me downs from the other Filipino families
spread across Forest Lawn to Falconridge and beyond,
buried deep in the back of the carob cupboard.

Oat milk in the Grecka poured into coffee,
swirled into tree rings, pressed by the scent
of maple macchiato mist arose in the air,
swans painted in latte art, held in a white mug.
My hands burrowed into the warm mug,
leading it to the maple wooden table,

Imperfections hide away.
knowing that any appearance they make,
could potentially ruin the surface I had to create.
The words spoken,
were so deliberately perfect
to the insecurities that laid within.

This is dedicated to:
The walls, who watched over me.
The screens, that washed my dirty face.
The darkness, which soothed my leaking and inflamed eyes.
The sadness, that sanitized the wounds within.
For your contributions, they will never be forgotten.