A Friday afternoon bike ride

And it’s sunny and it’s dusty and the trees won’t have leaves until it rains. Traffic flows like the last drawn out task before the weekend. Avoid, tinker, avoid.

Broken glass lies in bp nichol’s concrete letters. At a nearby loading bay, a man dips his moustache into his coffee. None of this is in the university’s brochures.

Two city workers merry-go-round a man-hole, their monkey wrenches augering a metal shaft down at Avenue and Dupont. They walk away from the open hole.

Molson Street shows no sign of beer, nor house fronts, only alley entrances and garage doors.

At Yonge, a rig is turning left. A city-worn man offers up a newspaper, which the driver declines.

An hour and a half later, all the drivers are aiming for home. The tone of the traffic turns, so I leave.

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