PiDGiN PARK PiCNiC
on a redoubtable corner of east hastings central
the blankets are spread out on the pavement and
a few bottles of cooking wine have been uncapped.
some loiter and wait for their promissory meal -
not expecting much, not having studied the menu.
the smell of searing drug-free angus wafts out
and whispers of foie gras on taro chips are
rather too incomprehensible for most to bear.
some lit the candles in anticipation and some
lightly polish up their pure plastic cutlery.
others strut up in their tailored redemption
averting eyes and holding righteous breaths -
not there to join the picnic upon concrete grounds
and certain other well-oiled principles...
"feed them pigeon pie, let them eat crow! -
no need to brine/purée/infuse/foam
for the unindoctrinated", they sneer,
swishing into the white indemnified room.
no, not until they lay down their arms,
their un-artful and belligerent signs,
their flaring convulsive anger - and not
until they stay down on their filthy blankets,
will this fusion picnic ever happen...
if ever.
if ever.
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