Sunday

Without obligation planned:
an early rise—we haven’t need.
A swift clean, after first stand;
out the door before we feed—
immanent is the real food.
Elevator descended
before a prompt turn just out
the door—road quickly ended—
now a right to stay the route.
City’s in its normal mood,
though my steps along: diff’rent.
For today, no rushing pace;
need no great energy spent
in mankind’s eternal race.
‘Tis the idea of a fool
to try and catch forever,
yet the metropolis hums
along, as if it never
knew the light wherewith comes
the reprieve of that third rule.
Yonge, the street that knows not sleep,
ever flowing on each walk
with determined steps that keep
their loneliness under lock.
At Grenville, on the corner:
a man, with no left shoe and
in need of a sewing kit,
asks a suit—all trim and tanned—
“Have you heard of the Good?” It
lands like words of a fore’gner.
At Dundas: the spectacle
of perpetual debate—
though undialectical,
they continue to dictate:
‘Sin has overrun the world!’
‘So heed what the Prophet taught!’
‘No, it is only the Lord
Jesus who’ll save you from rot!’
But who knows the right record;
in our time, all of life whorled. 
The question, then: who can fair?
We’ll let the theorists opine;
the end of our journey—there.
Finally, reaching the chair:
I tranquilly make the sign.