Driving down 48,
Curious George’s gang
sign tattooed on my right shoulder,
your lips twitch to The Boss
and I have lost my last quarter
in the space between the seats.

I still haven’t washed
the paprikash smell from my ponytail.
You are the man in the yellow
bike shorts
and I swallowed three puzzle pieces
last night.

We’re going down to the river.
Your hands strum the heartland rhythm
on a J-200 steering wheel.
All I want for Canada Day
is some discussion of Kafka
and your cufflinks tucked away.

There is a package
wrapped in kraft paper
on our doorstep—
some undigested jigsaw we don't need.

I’ve already seen the picture:
two Telekis in a Jungleland
stamping vermiculate patterns
into Haliburton.