Sunday Poems 37: Considering Infrastructure

This week some guerrilla infrastructure was added to Edmonton’s landscape: bike lanes on Saskatchewan Drive. They lasted for a few hours before the city removed them. How do we decide who gets to add infrastructure to a space? Non-human animals build things often, and we let many of them stay. A nest is up in a tree, outside of our eyelineresistance. Inoffensive. A path carved by a deer crunching through the valley, and then another deer following it sometime later because it’s now the path of least resistance. A human choses the same route. Calls it their own. I take the path when out for a walk with a friend.

Cyclists paint lines on the road and the lines are erased with a pressure washer, wasting many litres of water. City council is still deciding when and where to put up lines of their own choosing.

This same week, anti-jaywalking signs go up next to an intersection where pedestrians have frequently been (fatally) struck by cars. The pedestrians were not jaywalking at the time. The walk light was illuminated. The drivers of the cars were failing to pay attention and struck the pedestrians, who were killed by the impact. Now a sign reminds pedestrians only to cross at the proper time. A more helpful sign would have suggested that drivers of large, dangerous vehicles not cross the intersection at any time.

Sundays are for sunbathing with a book – you consider it. You’ve been doing the same things over and over lately. But it feels good. Some things don’t feel as good. You ran into a friend walking past a bar last week and you went in. It was good to see the friend. Everyone in the bar was talking about the necessity for gun control in the country to the south. Everyone in the bar held the same position. You’re sick of talking about. It’s a reflex which exists outside of the realm of utility. You prefer your routine of reading every morning. Below is a poem. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, consider sharing it with a friend. Poetry is a nice way to connect. As always, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.

found in the grass


i’ve got grasshopper legs,
i’m out for a run,
of course, it’s morning.

someone yells
‘it’s grad, bitches!
no more school forever.’

i tucked money in my shoe
to buy a coffee with
before i walk home.


things feel better
when i’m sleeping
in the morning sun.

for instance, when it’s morning
and we curl into each other
eyes gluey, legs warm.

it seems right
we cry in the same room
when we need to cry.

morning has a smell
and old folks walking their dogs
down university avenue.


even when mornings happen when i’m alone –
a crumpled piece of paper –
i’m trying to like them more.

wrapping myself around a cup of coffee
eating strawberries with cottage cheese
and stretching on the balcony.

even my mind body connection unravelling
knocking over the stack of books to shelve
and unplugging the internet.

i’m asking for mornings to be gentler
by considering my footsteps more carefully
when i take the trip to brush my teeth.

i’m ok on my own, arms to the sun
watering the plants, folding laundry,
dizzy through my morning routine.


but you help so much.

Originally published June 19, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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