Made in Canada

I am told that I am from a land where
pigeons are liable to be eaten
and language flies in curves, snapped out like sandstorms
whipped onto urbanized streets.
Men and camels spit here and taxi drivers
care little for the lives of pedestrians.

They tell me the sidewalks are painted in
black and white squares, and children are kept on leashes.
Women here are colourful, dazzling,
buttoning blouses tightly over their chests
and showing just enough coiffered hair
through transparent scarves.

Coffee shops and sheesha, the culture
of a defeatist nation, men leer at women
like pigeons to be eaten with cheese,
white salty cheese in fresh pita
from ahmed in the shop beneath the complex
who screams at little boys sent by their mothers
without faded pounds in hand.

Internet cafes and men
with mustaches and tattered slippers
humming faint tunes to the music on beaten up radios,
their shirts sinking in the sun and sweat.

Shops are still open at 2am and
lights send blinding glares into their eyes,
mobs of people on the meditteranean,
shaking hands, laughing time into the frothing waves,
corn crackles in the vendor's fire as he chants
in his rusty voice, two for three pounds.
Loofas sold on the street by a boy,
no older than ten and
fool shops, fanta and co-co-cola, roaming cats
forage for their evening meal.

Back in Canada, made in Canada.
I sit lulled by the buzz of my computer
feeling profoundly, alone.