Dear Mum, I keep having this dream:
we’re waiting around for the night bus
at 41st and Granville
together, the two of us.
Your memory’s unruined
and the Shell station shines like an ember.
The muggers are playing truant
and nobody loses their temper.
You pull out a box of Chiclets
(where the heck did you find those?)
and your laugh is undeliberate,
and the night is collected and close.
The bus slides up like a rumour
and one of us climbs and is driven
through rain-sodden eighties Vancouver
and, finally, all is forgiven.
By: A. Oliver