Highrise - a Canadian poem
by Glenn Brigaldino
Thursday, December 05, 2002
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Twenty-three stories and eight units of lives on each,
For this faceless tower with no colors the sky remains out of reach.
Standardized cells with mini-balconies and one laundry room for all,
Ageing elevators, a clogged garbage chute and no super-intendent on call.
The highrise stands afar from any lively and busy block.
Immigrants with fading hopes and those born here rarely even mingle;
While others with shattered dreams and lives reduced, lock their doors, always single.
Everyday on the upper-floors, people gaze for distraction, not contemplation;
Imagining a life with feet on the ground, remembering a backyard their own.
The highrise is just a crab shell, a nameless abode, hardly to be called home.
A boy of color treks daily between his school and the fourteenth floor;
Asian retirees, who have lived through a distant hell,
shuttle off to the racetracks, ready to score.
Those once native now tagged aboriginal, look to the system that fails all;
All welcome, all join in, no one cares after the first song.
The highrise has no ears, it braves the ice and wind, feeling no chill from within.
© 2002, by Glenn Brigaldino
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|Reviewed by john zimmerman
|good write! you have caught something of the reality of urban Canada
|Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen
|Engrossing, intriguing piece, Glenn, and the photo adds much to the tone over all, and to the lost feeling of the undertone. Great write!