Poor Pass in Kilbirnie
There is still no Revolution, the drums are dusty
And the once young bullfighter has grown sad-whiskered.
Briefly escaped from the Rita Angus complex
He wheels his steel-frame down Bay Road
Having survived from among the singers, the fighters
And the so-called lovers - body now stiff as board,
A face like weathered newsprint from the verge -
He edges and side-steps to the Ruth Gotlieb library.
Let us admit that we were unimpressed from the start -
That when the door shot open and he awoke us
We were sleepy and angry and in need of a coffee,
Never considering a corrida among our options
I further dispute that there was any call to consider God -
And as I remember, death, sex and hope were off the program -
With no chance of blood on the sawdust that or any wet Sunday
There being no time for flashy and outlandish suits of light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nicely written, Keith