Last Year's Vacation

Last June up north, a shortish trip,
One more vacation smoke-eclipsed,
Resists my stabs at recollection,
Rebels against reunification.
But look: the subway's caterpillars,
Cars like segments linked together,
Whipped through wormholes at wondrous speeds
As riders' innards churned and wreathed;
Also: on ambles through neighborhoods,
Some bright and quaint, some dour in mood,
We, the barbarians, scrounged for food--
Too many poutines, too few baked goods;
Also: the race that blocked the streets,
With cyclists that tore around in heats,
A swirling, sweating athletic feat
In honor of saintly Jean-Baptiste;
Also: the reliquary remains
Of a world exposition . . . I had to strain
To rebuild the place, it all had changed,
Erased like Ilion from its plain;
And here: the waitress who took offense
At our lack of fluency in French;
And here: the charming South Seas bar,
The type that grogs up tough old tars;
And here: the climb up Mont-Royal,
Its vistas obscured by the stubborn pall.
Always that smoke from northern fires,
First thin, then thick; those piney pyres
Spawned plumes like gangles of psychopaths
Intent on throttling us in wrath.