poem by Lorne
Foster
Hope is something in
A polyglot fare of fool and flesh
A precocious discourse on assorted
delights
That we eat everyday and dream at
night
In
And we dine on the dream
Of a worldly time
Of dreams more flesh than fool
In
With constellations of difference
And hope to savour
The lush imagination of mosaic
bodies
In
Of the city of hope
And we hope to dream
Beyond the bloodless body politic
of belonging
Hope is truly somethin’
in Toronto
Like a laughing fat Buddha
Living T-Dot large with Hog-town
memories in the 6ix
Against the rude refuge of a wanton
world
In
And by
nature sad …
But the dream’s steely resolve
Is all that we have
While the dark body says hold fast
to your dreams
And let them not die …
But dreams are not real
And hope is all they apply
And the she body says hope is a
thing with feathers
Perched in the soul …
But hope is the breakfast of
champions in Toronto
Where we dream the dream of time
and rainbow spice bold
In
As we walk the terrain of the global
soul
Where hope is weighted
By an
infinite appetite for dreaming.