Poem: McLarens





Written May 28, 2017

It is hot.
I see the McLaren.
Gills like a fish.
Like bright crayon
colours down Georgia
or parked in front of the
Fairmount Pacific.

Like the brightness in a crayoned
Building houses
Trucks made of boxes.

The McLarens are in the
sea of normal vehicles:
School buses
Grey cars
White delivery vans.
Only the taxis really try to compete
with their bright colours, but of course fail.

Orange, green and red.
I glance up
through the window. I see
one leave the intersection.
It’s halfway to Granville by now.

They don’t travel in packs.
I pour milk into coffee.
Return a magnet that a
fridge-climbing cat knocked off.
Open the freezer.
Let the cold swim past my ears.


By Wendy Stewart

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