​

The cold always reminds me

of those Saturdays

when we carried our dreams

on the end of hockey sticks,

steel plant smog followed us

like obsessed fans,

but complaints about pollution

were left for those who didn't worry

about the Maple Leafs making the playoffs.

 

At a frozen lumpy pond

we skated on

for hours

pretended to be five Gilmours,

taking turns scoring the game winning goal,

ambitions for our future

felt just the right size for still growing shoulders-

all we needed

was to cradle the puck against a wooden blade,

dressed in black electrical tape,

and shoot with a ferocity

I've long since lost.

​