|July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four|
|Calgary International Hostel
From the second floor
as he listens to a Mozart violin concerto
a shopping trolley shambles into view
brimming with empty cans & bottles
tied in clear plastic bags
The larger, fiercer of the two tramps
is hidden under layers of clothes
his Karl Marx beard gives him a subversive edge
the other- as he enters the floodlight-
wears a baseball cap & a dark oversized business jacket
They are struggling. Mute.
The headphones finally lifted… ‘I’ll fucken kill you! You cunt. I’ll kill
A hateful snarl. Then incoherent babblings/ The crash & pull of metal- the
tramps struggling/ disappearing into the surrounding reserve.
John, originally from Pennsylvania, but living in Hawaii says:
‘Did you hear the news?’
‘Some rooms in the bottom floor were trashed last night. They stole
Who did it?
‘Don’t really know. But we found some of his stuff in the park. He’s still
missing his passport’.
He tells him he isn’t surprised
He had visited the hostel twenty years earlier- in early December
There was a stabbing outside
In the early morning, he passes the needle exchange box
and about half a dozen homeless men are sprawled in the park.
Karl Marx is crashed out on top a picnic table
sparring with some invisible foe
throwing stiff uppercuts & crosses
He is SHOUTING OUT:
‘I’ll KILL you. You FUCKEN cunt!’
|RETURN to July 2005|