Van Sun

I like Vancouver when the sun comes out.
When Australian accents and bad butterfly tattoos emerge from the corners of white tank tops that are seeing the light of day for the first time in eight months.
When tourists get off at Waterfront and circle in groups, like dogs deciding where to sit.
Money belts hug bulging waists,
archaic paper maps flap in the thick Gastown breeze.
Locals tactically navigate through families of weary kids
being dragged by at-their-wits-end Moms
and hoisted onto the shoulders of don’t make-me-turn-this-thing-around Dads.
Their on their way to Jericho, or Third, or Sunset,
or some other body of water that turns winter pale pink,
blushing at the prosperity of what could lie ahead.
Rouging at the possibility of warm nights and painted toenails
and the kind of unabashed shamelessness that only comes in July and August.
There’s something different in everyday nuances,
a kind of delirium that beckons dreaming.
There’s Birkenstocks and dizzying bicycle wheels
and a rotating carousel of euphemisms for love that
spill from teenagers lips under fireworks.
There’s a constant buzzzzzzzz of foreign languages that hum out of rolled-down windows,
the smell of SPF 50 following close behind.
There’s sweat pooling on the paved backside of the Seawall
and the mountains sigh with relief as they shed the weight of snow.
Summer’s here—we made it.

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