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.