I put on my chore coat in November

When the evening news is over I button my chore coat

and pull the waste bins out to the street, night air

crisp against my face. I hoist the garage door, find

yard bags filled with prunings (phlox and hostas)

stashed to keep dry in last week’s rain, haul them

across the lawn. The maple, always slow

to lose its leaves, has begun now, to drop them.

They curl into themselves, brown scatter on the still-

green grass, the colours taking on a different brilliance

in the dark. Across the street the neighbors

have already filled their lawn with Christmas light,

(two sparkling deer, row of soft-lit shrubs)

When I pause to look at the sky one star

shines through the overcast.

I’ve always liked this:

the quiet dark, familiar rattle of wheels over driveway stones

the small exigency of what needs to be done (the garbage truck

comes early) sequestering a space tonight within

the world’s tilt and stumble (the news a sleet stinging

behind thought), a steadying, somewhere

between our music and our violence, one foot and the next,

a tug against the bin’s weight, a chore, a solace.

In Benny’s Barbershop

you can sit down on the brown leatherette sofa

and watch the city buses pull into the subway station across Jane Street.

The radio is softly tuned to 96.3 The New Classical FM, and you can hear

Maria Callas singing O Mio Babbino Caro, while sun pours in

through the big east window and falls in a rectangle

near Nick’s feet.

Each week now, Steve leans back in Nick’s chair,

his head cushioned by folded white towels. Nick shaves him

with scrupulous care, and Benny, courtly, offers me coffee,

which I decline, but thank him, for the offer and the music

and he tells me about music lessons where he grew up in Albania,

tells me that classical music keeps him going, calm

but with energy.

On the sofa in Benny’s Barbershop, your thought

can drift from whatever book or magazine you might

have brought along – to towels in cubbies over the sink,

model bicycle on the top shelf, the small philodendron in a white pot,

the easy tones of conversation: “ ... car I had in Chicago” “... always

been in a city in America, never to a small town”

Nick takes time

with Steve, shapes his moustache, wets his hair and blows it

smoothly dry. He wears running shoes, bright yellow and turquoise.

Barbers all day on their feet – these kind men, their good-humoured

banter: “I did a dumb thing yesterday.” “First time ever?”

“There you go,

Steve, my man,” Nick says, helping Steve up from the chair.

He brushes Steve’s shoulders, fastens his collar button.

I rouse myself.

“Next week, then,” we say, and I open the door to leave

this lull, this good place.