1. Re: Report to the Council, cc The Huffer Foundation et al.

      At last year’s prestigious Ho-Lit awards

      I won the coveted Layton Medallion

      (rhymes with ‘Canadian stallion’), now nestled

      in my chest hair as I winter in Crete.

      So, mes chères, not that you’re sleeping,

      wondering which Doritos Collisions

      will collide next, but you are well served —

      I thank my editor, Minka, &c.

      Hard at work on my mystery novel now:

      Murder Most Murdersome, You Murder-Maker.

      I’m hoping to wake one day to say, ‘It was

      all a dream — those poplar-moon poems!’

      The glare of my medallion, however, is real.

      Real as the beatings administered behind

      the Mont St-Antoine arena. Those beatings

      were the worst of your very harsh winters.

      2. Montreal, home of the Washington Generals.

      In the end, I had to go back to teaching.

      Back to two-percent milk and Mopey-O’s.

      Back to due diligence with winter tires

      and maintaining faith in Derek Jeter.

      Every novel idea I have goes awry:

      I end up calling the love interest ‘Fabiana’

      or the protagonist suddenly finds gold

      in the sock meant to hold the ball bearings.

      You know, going back to school doesn’t mean

      I’ve given up on living; going back

      to school just means I’ve given up on life.

      Though my clothes suggest I gave up in ’92.

      In the end, I had to go back to the hood —

      my mien, my chow, my view au cimetière.

      Dude, you should have been there at open mic —

      I sang ‘Skankland Refuge’ and it was epic.

      3. If you can’t leave me be, then leave me alone.

      I’m compelled to say I like your haircut.

      Now your head’s the answer to the questions

       What if Lady Gaga cut her own hair

      and What if Lady Gaga were legally blind?

      Most days, I have been busy at the print shop.

      I still confuse ‘Wednesday’ with ‘the weekend.’

      Are you still working on your stories?

      The ones with the sour mothers being all sour?

      I apologize for the way sun sneaks into

      my study. I’m not sure why, but I do.

      It is my sincere hope you now have a puddle

      named after you and you still chew quietly.

      Hey, a mug clang and old-days e-hugs

      for the memories of that gyro stand, eh?

      Oh, those times we said things about our friends

      behind their backs! Their stupid Gap-clad backs.

      4. To expedite your snooping, my e-mail password is ‘abortionist.’

      A glossy fashion mag boasts ‘300 Flirty

      Looks for the New Year,’ which can only mean

      we’re subjected to a year with sixty-five

      or sixty-six unflirty days. Unacceptable!

      Melville, apparently, just kept at it.

      The sea, the skiffs, the scrimshaw and scrivening.

      A note in a galley of The Whale reads:

      ‘Ponce de Leotard: First Person Round the Panty.’

      I’m saying I like the idea of sitting down

      without really needing to get up again.

      I’m saying I had no idea what flirt.com was —

      Nina, I was in my professor clothes!

      My grey sweater and blue shirt combo

      will soon be featured in the slick pages

      of Grey Sweater and Blue Shirt Combo

      Magazine. Name, as always, misspelled.

      5. Speaking of stealing cars and running them off into the quarry to collect the insurance money, I ran into your father. Your real father.

      It’s so embarrassing, the cutesy pet names

      adult lovers adopt. I called her ‘pookie’ and ‘snook’

      and she called me ‘horseface’ and ‘the human wallet.’

      Oh, snook, we bought so much lawn furniture!

      Then, making my plans to move down south,

      I stopped stooping from the weight of that shame.

      I sold my hockey cards. Even Bobby Orr.

      I sold my woodcarvings. Even Bobby Orr.