.my experience with aviation

i.
i peer into the windows down queen street,
as i make my way to the library.
the people inside breathe warmth
into my lungs as
how i imagine a neighbour's kind
mug of coffee would feel,
against my lips and cheek.

but i don't live here,
and i disobey a road-sign
to get to my destination.

ii.
i walk to the drumming beat of
a workman's hammer and saw.
i have stumbled into a construction zone,
but i walk on
and feel their clumsy stare
as if i were a pigeon
flapping past their kitchen windows.

i only flit because
it is early now, and i
am only moving toward my destination.

iii.
i pass the children's nodding heads
in the windows of st. jean's
and avoid the clumps of dirt, being thrown
at my feet by ditch diggers.
the traffic lights change with my breath,
and i am never tardy,
as the seconds count down.

i stop my foot,
with one second to spare
and make my way to my; to my destination.

iv.
i arrive on kent street and notice
a biker greeting people
by their f-f-first names.
what i wouldn't give to smile as he
passed, hearing my name from his
stuttering lips,
as if to only talk about the weather.

but he simply p-pedals past me,
unaware of my wish to keep me
from my destination.

v.
on victoria row i hear the crunch
of walnuts meeting their fates
with each new step i take.
they have been chilled brittle by frost,
like the wind-swept leaves in the gutter,
like the crumbling brick of city hall
where i remember lovers kissing

under the street clock,
which is exactly three minutes fast;
this shall not keep me from my destination.

vi.
my heart flutters like the blue jay's
wings; stark naked
as i reach the gigantic building.
the pebbled concrete feels so cold,
but my blood says otherwise.
as i turn left and climb the steps,
i hear the seconds tick off a street light; 3.. 2..

1. and i make my way to the doors
feeling the cold steel of the handle,
i have made it to my destination.

vii.
i jump a fence to a restricted stone pathway
where i sit, waiting behind the
safety of the bushes.
i am incognito.
as i look down past the giant pillars
into the windows below,
and read the book titles

past the distorted heads of the
early-bird enthusiasts,
i ruffle my feathers and sigh.

viii.
and i wait for the doors to open,
and i watch people pass hand in hand,
and i see your face in the red herring-bone brick,
and i hear the kissing clock strike: eight-nine-ten,
and in the extra three minutes time i shake hands,
and ask this golden haired stranger if she has the time,
and she doesn't answer before. . .
and nothing happened once--
and everything was warm, again.