deep and still digging

in a basement somewhere in west toronto
past the big park and before the river
you are twenty-three years deep and still digging
(pace is such a difficult beast to tame)
the day is four nights gone, the cake
has been eaten, the pan cleaned, those
colourful worms skewered by cocktail swords
(some dirty metaphor, i'm sure) have made
their peace with the material world and retired
to a darker den where you speak loudly, with
intent, slow to wake and quick to love (just as i
remembered you) beneath the many layers
which you'll soon begin to shed because winter
is six nights gone and nakedness is easier
than ever and as you slip on your shoes
with a casual confidence that has taken
seasons to acquire, leaning on the wooden
frame of a childhood doorway, eyeing the distance
before you, the rank stench of work-to-come
hanging heavily in the air -- you are not alone.
somewhere in east toronto between university
and a great valley, i am twenty-one years old
deep and still digging, pen in hand, heart on sleeve,
warm beneath your sweater and smiling.