Grace Period

The thunderstorm is a verdict
on the day as yet undelivered,
prophesied by a boisterous wind
that cools with the fresh clean smell
of a barber dusting the hair off your face
with a talcum-powdered brush,
the gentle swishing never ceasing.

Right now everyone seems as animated
as the joyous jig of a flame atop a candle;
there’s a giddy air of urgency that comes 
when a cashier gives a five-minute warning 
before closing the store — we scan 
the streets like shelves in case 
there’s something that we missed:

A gang of tulips with pointed petal tips,
almost insolently swaying, displaying
their colours the way some ingenues
would parade their gorgeous gowns;
watching us blink with shutter speed.


The truck sliding to a stop at the light,
rap music loudly heralding its arrival
while the driver and others inside
stare ahead, defined by a stoic kind
of silence amid the staccato din.


Down a side street I suddenly see
a table left for takers by the curb,
with two chairs behind one side,
a half-finished lemonade stand,
or just seats to feast your eyes


On what’s left of this trimester
in the pregnancy of a night,
leaning forward on your elbows,
holding a head even heavier
than whatever those clouds hide.

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Poetry
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July 22,
2020
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2-minute
read

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Shane Schick

has been a columnist for the Globe and Mail, the Editor in Chief of Marketing Magazine and an Editor-at-Large at Swagger Magazine.

Besides contributing to Bay Street Bull, Shane is developing a publication about customer experience design called 360 Magazine, hosts The Owned Media Observer podcast and blogs about fashion and style at Menswhere.ca. He lives in Toronto with his wife and three children.

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