The Day after Pat Musitano Died
my aimless strait through Oakville’s tunnels,
a suburban state in too-late pursuit
of a cancelled season mirrored Pat’s last brush
with lawn furniture; GO surfaces wiped squeaky
but still stately, encrusted with the public
amid breaking news: living legend dead
across the harbour, sediment farther than Randle Reef’s spew
means cementless shoes, sounds one wouldn’t expect
despite Srebrenica’s thirtieth sounding:
Fubu fabric squeaking pro patria, pro patio
furniture hacked down in savagery cinematic
except for familiar strips of suburban Hamilton
alongside all kinds—Italians climbed from foibas,
beer-bellied partisans ripping out streetcar tracks
making way for prosperity, gunning it on plains
straight through to Buffalo’s closed-down badland
black curls, belly, no respect for anybody,
unbuttoned polo native not only to Hamilton
but Etobicoke, Burlington, Waterdown
and track pants strewn off camera on Plains Road East—
pan back to CHCH a day later—
footage of one shabby soldier touching down,
taking a knee, some kind of rustic crossing
understated like product from Pro Patio Furniture