He had already told her the list of
his favourite trees; beginning with
the old Main Road one that valiantly kept
up the illusion of the tire swing long
after the Nintendo and after that
the Game boy Xmas showed up.

The one in Bowring that had been
annihilated with names and dates and failing
shapes and promises.

The Weeping Willows that they made
weapon or swung over ponds then back
to safe ground.

He even brought up the seemingly
arbitrary one he drank in a few
summers when they were all still
minors and had drink cheap stuff,
prior to loitering at pool halls
or some house, bush or other species
of party.

It was behind the Flour mill,
the one he had nearly loved a
dozen girls, unsuccessfully (years later,
unloading trucks in the east for Sobeys
he would see the flour sacks with the logo
and the name and

he always thought of the ugliness
of that building, how it stuck itself
in the middle of progress,
the loading trucks always going and
coming and going again.

He’d think of all those walks, and of course
all that early, (Wildcat) beer. Hey, at
24 bucks for a two-four, and tasting like the
Grand River the old mill shat its refuse into.
(like some giants uncleaned bong one can assume)
It was all pretty hard to forget.