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while I chatted with an acquaintance, she got away from me again and I found her sitting on a park bench beside an old man. He was looking at her, smiling, a smoke dangling from the corner of his mouth. As I grabbed my daughter I said hi to the old man and thanked him, then promptly forgot all about it. A month later, I recognized him when the Poetry Van stopped in Centre-Sud. He wasn’t just a park regular drawn by a pop-up artistic performance – he’d been following the Poetry Van around town, a constant presence on the outskirts of the crowd, sitting on a bench, just close enough to hear the amplified voices. He didn’t react to the readings, seemed content to sit there smoking and listening. I approached him and he nodded, and asked me why I hadn’t brought my daughter this time. I joked that the family unit could be a prison cell, and I was out on furlough. He showed me a piece of paper folded up in his tobacco pouch, said he was trying to decide whether to read at the open mic at the end of the event. He didn’t get the chance. Darkness was descending. We went out for a few pints.
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