James Maxwell
Drinking in Montreal
Montreal, in its
flickering old bulb way
is quickly fading,
stumbling alone along
hazy lamp-lit streets.
My phone dies off,
my brother, his wife
back then
asleep at the hotel.
Even the beer shops have
shut down,
this entire frigid country
resting upon
the clock.
Two women flag me down,
though admittedly it
doesn’t take much.
One is ancient and very
nearly toothless;
she could have been fifty,
or else
one hundred and two.
The other, soft-faced and
motherly
may have only been
ten or so years older
than me at the time,
she steers the conversation towards
pricing and that sort of thing,
the old one leers with
gum-jawed suggestions.
They know where the quiet spots are,
the private corners and
ATMs—
Canada, as
accommodating a country
as any.
I pause
and contemplate
lonely chambers,
but my wallet wins out
and I admit I
have no money, but
did they know where I
could find the Hotel
Faubourg?
The young one’s face
blossoms as she explains
that it’s only around
the corner
and that I have spent
two needless hours
lost.
Overjoyed,
I thank her and
plant one single
kiss upon her
cheek
and years later
my brother, though
no longer married,
still laughs
about it.
