I remember stopping, tipsy,
scraping together our last Canadian currency
at the hot dog vendor
when we both ate meat
and it was easy not to think about origins or consequences.
Buying socks in Little Italy,
to fix the hot blister on my heel
from the vintage Frye boots I wore
when we walked across that metropolis.
I remember spending $120 on whiskey at the show
and buying beers for the minors behind us
in exchange for whistling lessons.
I remember wanting you so badly
there, in the dark
and you snoring loudly
when my desire failed to disturb you.
And how small my universe was then
at the intersection of King and Spadina
in that flash-frozen city.