Calgary

We shelter under a doorway,
as your thick yellow sweater sucks
up the rain, and my black suit clings
to my body. I tell you about my day 
at work, and how I think I broke the 
copy machine. You say you think we 
missed the bus, and suggest we go
and sit in the café across the street.

Stowaway drops of rainwater drip
from our clothes and pool under the 
table. Your eyes grow wide and your 
hands tighten around your coffee cup 
as you excitedly tell me stories of  your 
backpacking trip to Paris, and the strange 
people you met there. I sit and listen, captivated.

The bus pulls up outside the window.
We chase each other back outside into the rain,
leaving half-full cups of coffee on the table. You push
me to the back of the bus where we sit between grey men 
in black suits, and then you tell me more about what it's like,
to escape from here.

By Gavin W.