peaches in november 7:38 p.m.

The wind was brisk and cold, the way it always
Is after Hallowe’en, when the costumes have been
Tucked away between the shoe box containing

Receipts from 2004 and a relative’s wedding dress,
Air-sealed in a plastic zip-up container in the front hall.
I walked through the parking lot behind his building,

It’s worn down painted white lines introducing themselves
To me as I approached the electric sliding glass doors
Of the high-end grocery on his corner. It’s smallish

Feeling aisles, packed tightly with lovely containers
Of brightly-coloured jam and four dollar croissants
Were so inviting on a November morning north.

What a travesty, I thought, when the grocery manager
Told me that there were no peaches. That peaches
Didn’t come in with the shipments from September to May.

That you couldn’t get peaches in November anywhere
In Toronto. But I had such faith that this was a city that
Could produce anything I might desire, why on earth

Would I otherwise pay so much in rent. Why crowd
Into dirty subway cars and trudge through mucky, sad-filled
Streets unless to be able to part one’s hair behind and

Dare to each a peach. In November, even.