He drives a Zamboni down the sidewalk,
screaming of the Leafs.
You squint up towards the summer sun,
expecting a nude-y tree.
The ketchup chips are littering his front, the syrup glistening,
you watch your step, expecting ice,
to explain this choice of mobility.
“Eh. You there? Can I sneak by?”
he’s conversing with a red-sweatered moose.
Or is that raccoon? Or a flock of geese?
All the mammalia stereotypes run together.
The Zamboni inches closer now,
allowing a teeny peak.
You want to ask for the passenger side,
as this ride looks serene.
You’ve never been to Peggy’s Cove,
but she definitely sounds polite.
You’ve never seen the Wheat King,
or the oil sands or the peaks.
But today is not your day,
to skip town with The Canadian,
for today you must root here
and allow the Zamboni to glide on.