photo by Peter Valentine
Commercial Drive
I haven’t forgotten the cavorters,
the 4 a.m. ruckusers storming down the street yelling
“I want to get some sleep”
like a psychotic mantra,
and me fresh-snatched from my own dreams.
Still, I love this place:
the #20 Victoria, snaking its way up the Drive
like a lumbering tortoise,
full of all of God’s creation,
impossibly inching, heavy with its varied load,
as if diversity and voluble discord
were actually a weight factor.
Restaurants and cafes teeming with patrons,
spilling out onto the streets at the slightest hint of sunshine
despite that it’s 3 p.m. on a workday.
The way that people know my name:
shopkeepers, tarot readers, buskers, panhandlers
and there is no more hiding from anyone
than from myself.
And the mood of the day is palpable
and catching
as if a giant, invisible wave
had run its course
from Venables through 8th.
Here, the past is tangible as the present:
Former friends, ex boyfriends and acquaintances
tip their hats to me,
remind me, by their persistent presence,
to mind my karma.
Hippies, yuppies, old Italian men and
lesbian couples
somehow share the same air
and even pass each other by on the sidewalk
at times
without serious commotion.
If this street is a microcosm
I like the world better
than I would have thought:
all of humanity distilled to this one, vivid stretch.
Bring me my Commercial Drive over
Kitsilano or Crescent Beach or West Point Grey any day.
Despite its blemishes,
I have chosen this patch of the planet
as much as it has chosen me.
I have planted myself here
amongst the wildflowers and orchids,
in this lush, improbable space.
copyright 2006
Marni Norwich is a poet and journalist. She's also a local entrepreneur with her writing, editing and consulting business, Inkcat Media (www.inkcatmedia.com)."