This weekend I should have

transformed equations millennia in the making,

recorded the rate at which things fall,

prepared for a minute before sixty eyes,

heard the march of Canada’s young

approaching the Deustch wall of lead.

 

This weekend I should have

cried for the men who drowned at Dunkirk,

lent a hand to the hungry in Alberta’s Dustbowl,

hid underground in fear of

the clock

striking

twelve.

 

This weekend I should have

chanted alongside the “silent majority,”

toppled the Berlin Wall,

brought the nations together under one roof,

charted the populous.

 

This weekend I should have

been home at two,

to learn about popping the clutch,

and stall in the parking lot of Viking Air.

Later, eat dinner with my dad

and listen to him sing “Rocky Raccoon”.

---

 

As it appeared in Claremont Review, Issue 39, Spring 2011, ISSN 1188 5068