In Toronto Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

In Toronto


Toronto
Can I call you a city?
The fourth largest in North America?

I sure know you well, have seen
even if you are just a lake, not so big
you have varieties to amuse, to be seen.
Driving side to side, end to end, I am lucky…
to knock the doors, ring the bells and to open the windows
and to see the robes tightened or loose
with smiles…with frowns…and when they fall,
with the looks of humbleness…and of selfishness…
I see the wetness of the hair after showers.

And I see immigrants of the farms…
and the youths coming from the small towns…
I see them sharing lives in the windowless basements…
They are yellow, red, black, brown; all colours…
I see signs of faiths hung on the doors, and of faithlessness…

One can call you an ocean…
I am lucky, have no doubt…
to have the pen to write…
Men of pen take chisels, use brush
and live with the softness of the breeze, as well as the rocks
they give life to the dust and to the water, form clouds.

And I claim to do the same…
I write of the things seen
of a woman, Oriental
of Latin Xavier…

Lucky I to be there to observe…
she is an abused dog, unaware of the tongue of the town
bags in hands goes around to sell door to door,
has a secretive supplier, clients she must find
reads Chinese magazines and papers, notes numbers.
Xavier takes the pick and breaks the bad wall all day long
then lays the bricks, works mule-like; needs the food of a horse;
I am late; he can't eat, fell asleep before I arrived, he is a lug.