On Airport Road

On Airport Rd., they stack the plazas
high on bad foundations, four adjoining jewellers
hold up offices, apartments
that break by-laws by hiding
behind the walls of butcher shops.  

Down the road, The Last Grill, the last
white-owned business bides its time until
the churches close on Sunday, spilling their communities
(incommunicado) out
into the street.

I bring this all up to my waitress who smiles, says
Five jewellers. The fifth sign says
diamonds in Punjabi.

Her walls hold thirty years
of Leafs’ memorabilia
but the old man who cooks
keeps the TV on La Liga.

The thirty empty seats frame the way
to the back door, where
the debris beside the dumpster builds
a fort for her three kids.

She says
What’s the point of central planning
when everyone’s ambitious?
I ask
if she’s ambitious, she
blushes, takes the tip.