there was that concert
with a heavy emphasis on brass instruments,
the trombone, the trumpet, the tuba
finally getting the attention they deserve
they played at a tavern or what passes
as a tavern up here in Canada,
and anyway, i had tears in my eyes,
i felt my boyfriend standing in my proximity
and i thought he might have been crying
but i was really crying because if
emotions had instruments attached to them
i would be a trombone, all sad and swaying
like a whale song, all uncomfortable.
i wished he had been holding me during
my favourite song.
my dad’s shirts still hang in his closet
underneath all the saints and saviours on
a shelf he built himself, and bows to every morning,
and they are the same shirts that he wore
when i was with the boyfriend who cried
at the beirut concert, and they are the same shirts
now, but now he pretends to like other bands
for another girl or woman, i’m not sure
how old we are now. i’m sure
the band still exists, and uses trombones
to squeeze out tears from crowds of early
to mid-twenty-somethings in semi-populated
urban cities across the world who think
themselves into cultured states of being,
but mainly because they listen to bands with
foreign names, like beirut, but the bandmembers still
don’t care that at one point,
i was standing at their concert crying,
and my boyfriend was crying, and now
we still both hold that memory, and my father
wears the same shirts, but nothing is the same.
i think mentioning exotic bands and semi-quoting
toronto-god Drake in the same poem
should earn me some medal,
right? rob ford. you were supposed to hold me.
gardiner. DVP. someone needs to understand
where i am coming from. and it’s not
downtown toronto. it’s not a place
where you can stick a pin in it on
Google maps and say “i came from there”.
those are not the places people exist.
Photo credit: Katrin Shumakov on Flickr