On Thursday I will drink a tomatoe juice in Montreal,
I'll hope for rain, for lights reflected
across the windshields of double parked cars;
weather to fit my mood, the half-shut eyes
of a midnight cocktail shaker alone at the bar.
I'll visit all the situations in the city.
Montreal was crazy that winter for old rock and roll;
girls two-stepped with each other in cellar clubs.
I'll try to exorcise ghosts 20-years old;
your packed bags by the door, a drained juice glass
and a taxi sounding its horn. I had on white heels,
it was that long ago.