Lawrence Hall
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https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

              The Great Canadian Dairy / Diary Dispute of 2022

         "Canada must now do the right thing and come into full
           compliance with its obligations on diary [sic].”

   Brady: Canadian Dairy Dispute Settlement Achieved Thanks to
  USMCA’s Improved Enforcement | U.S. House of Representatives

How many nights have Americans lost sleep
Through fear and righteous anger that in the darkness
An illegal liter of perfidious Canadian milk
Might sneak across the 49th Parallel

The lights burn late in the Pentagon tonight
While border guards watch the wicked north
Lest a stick of malicious Canadian butter
Attempt to overthrow our Constitution

We watch all our borders constantly now
Against Canadians hiding in a Trojan cow

There is this pair of sweatpants,
they sit in the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Sometimes
I like to picture myself wearing them.

That comfortable,
snuggly feeling.
Like a warm hug
from an old friend
you used to crush on.

It's such an out there concept,
- but imagine if it happened.
Me
wearing those sweatpants
from the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Or that black hoodie
that my mom got me two Christmases ago
the one that she special purchased because so it'd fit just right
Or any stained shirt ever
one that you can wear for comfort at home
because finally no one is watching.

I learned young
to button-up
so that there wouldn't be
as many eyes watching me today
so i can go and buy my favourite candy
from that gas station down the street.

And I always wondered
why some people's sunday best
was my only way to feel normal.

I was about 10
when I learned
that wearing comfortable
might get me stopped
by the police today.

I guess this is what it's like
to be true
north
strong
and free.

I am lately entranced by neo-noir,
The criminal mysteries of Europe
And the wilds of Canada and Britain.
There is rarely running, screaming
Or endless car chases through
London, Ottawa or Ystad,
Unlike the reckless pursuits
In Manhattan or L.A. streets.
These detectives don’t sashay
In long coats or wear black leather,
(Except for a couple).
They wake up hung over,
Like Wallander, or grieving
Like Perez from Fair Isle
And Matthias, self-exiled to Wales.

Bodies surface or are found
In gorgeous forests.
The detectives overcome depression
To quarrel with irrational superiors
(Who may themselves be guilty),
Yet they don’t yell like sergeants
In the gritty precincts of NYC.
They drive their Volvos through
Rolling fields of rye and rapeseed.
And even the mysterious quarries
Where bodies are found in Poland and Wales
Are beautiful—not like the junkyards
Of Barstow or east coast borderlands.
Some detectives are lucky, like Matthias,
In hiding in Hinterland.
He walks the shores of Aberstwyth
As Wallander does the fields of Malmo.
When suspects are caught, they aren’t beaten.
Their jails are neat and clean;
The prisoners get mattresses, pillows and TV!
The police question suspects casually,
As if they would rather be in bed.
The female cops are clever and quiet;
They rarely show their anger
When chided or ignored,
But carry on with dignity
And show the others
How work is really done.

At last, the assailant is charged,
Sun sets through the mist,
Sheep graze on manicured fields.
Village streets glow with low light
Reflected off rain-washed stone.
But despite the ambiance, people die
In weird ways: falling off of towers,
Shot while picnicking in costumes,
Lynched by a group of church goers
Floating past in a lake or river,
Or set on fire in a flowery field.
It’s as if the deaths are staged,
To match the serenity of the old world.
The slow machinations of justice
And drained eyes of the officers
Comfort me like a sedative
Always there, watching over their flock
As soothing as a soft, wool blanket
Hiding a frightened child.
When I am asleep, let
Matthias run along the cliff,
Let Wallander drink his wine
While Endeavour swoons to opera
And Cardinal stands in the birch grove,
All as semi-sedated sentinels
In the dusk or midnight sun.
I only ask that American blues
Take a page from these good constables
Across the sea or north of the border;
Imagine the settling peace
In the wide, new world,
If people of color were never smothered,
Or shot when carrying a phone
And people protesting were not gassed,
But spoken to with weary eyes
And a mind prompting peace officers
To listen, protect and serve.

There in Saskatchewan
There is this broken down
School house
For the olden days
Lit up by the stars of the Big Dipper
Just above the house it’s self
I wish I could take a
Photo

To see the Big Dipper
In the prairie provinces
How clear this diamonds you be
A bright
With not light
In sight
What I night in
The bucket list

Saskatchewan
Is the most surreal
Province there is
Building that look like school
Milk cartons
It does not get that wonderful
It does not get that surreal
Strange
Or
Beautiful
Tall milk cartoons
Sticking out of no where
How alien