Poem: Sirens on Hastings

Sirens on Hastings slice into my after brunch drowsiness...
trouble is happening for someone other than me somewhere along the corridor...
this afternoon...like every other afternoon...every other midnight...
I'm lucky I know...only having to stare at a blank piece of paper...
hoping to fill its white expanses soon...rather than be lying on my back..
on some cold and wind blown side walk staring up at some vague patch of sky
and wondering if the ambulance man will reach me in time...
In the close enough to feel distance Mount Seymour is grizzle headed...
and merging into a grey swirl of clouds...Grouse Mountain and the Two Sisters...
known by the Johnny Come Latelys as the Lions Heads...are lost in the vapours of spring...
interfering with my view of the world from my window today...
Like a surgeon at his operating table I tug and slice at the low cloud cover inside of me...
calling me to fall asleep at the life wheel and let another afternoon slip by...
like a mummy in his bandages...too frozen to do anything about it...
Today...I do not reach for lightening bolts of illumination or the shaman's rattle
and incantations to change the energy inside and outside of me...but rub pen against paper
in a small act of defiance against the valium of inertia and thank the siren's wail
at my window...for giving me my afternoon wake up call...............