On three corners where I live
at Grace and Hermitage,
there is a brothel, a church, and a hospital.
This place has everything one needs
to make way. From my window,
I watch the people as they go in and come
out. Some look relieved, and stroll away.
Others stop their faces
at the curb of concern,
as if their visit was too little,
or too much and more
will be needed soon.
Each finds a different way.
The flesh comes and goes most quickly.
Left behind, the spirits dangle
in sterile incense and perfume.
They cling to the hems of vestments
and trouser zippers in whispers.