It got dreary, after awhile, how reliably
The most probable things kept happening.
It was probably time to be done with myself.
The town of Wawa with its rampant giant
Statues of Canadian geese on the north
Shore of Superior weirdly reminded me
Of the giant white crucifixion statues
In the cemeteries of small-town Quebec.
The town of Timmins distinguished
Its self-similar streets and scruffiness
By being the hometown of Shania Twain.
In Rossport, one cafe stood open to the wind
And rain, but accessible only by steep stairs
Through dense gardens, the mists blowing
Spindrift all the way into the hills, like me.
In White River, a dirty filling station boasted
The sale of a half-million dollar lottery ticket
Barely a month ago. Might as well been
Forever and gone to the dark of the moon,
But I bought a ticket myself, predictably.
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