Is it the high tones of Thai from the woman traipsing by
talking on her phone?
The Afrikaners next door, discussing their day in Dutch,
while their daughter, Kaanya, climbs her tree house
that looks like a big game hunting platform
from where my cat is spotted?
Is it the Taiwanese couple gardening in glottal fits,
a young pregnant couple cherishing homemaking
on a mainland they call home?
Is it the the two Jewish men, the stalled brothers,
on the other side of the street,
one sitting in solemn garb, while the other,
sweatshirt attired, lifts the hood of the old Chevy,
jump starting what the other believes
runs on faith alone?
Is it a community center where I hear Chinese, by day,
and Arabic by night?
Is it the bakery that serves Cornish pies, chicken pot pies,
almond cookies, and sticky rice?
Is it Janelle from Flin Flon, who lives a few degrees below
and considers cold evenings, a summer night for barbecue?
Is it my massage therapist from the Ngati Hei tribe of Maori?
Is it my wife and I, Americans seeking peace
beyond our borders?
Is it the quiet of this West Cambie Neighbourhood,
or those of us who speak to one another
in a common language?

Serious Spartan specter of streaking blue
encircling light wraps us like lambs wool
winding on a big wheeled spinner,
mercurial tricksters with foot-long beards.

Rumplestiltskin rocket dancers with batons,
serious Spartan specter of streaking blue
bring visual soothsayers like Puck and Peter Pan,
or a cane strutting Chaplin entering a café.

Sitting, waiting for our dreams, we topple
a vase before almost getting table service.
Serious Spartan specter of streaking blue
makes sure, like life, it’s not quite right.

He departs defiantly like Marcell Marceau
becoming Jack in the bean stalk in time to twirl—
our eyes have become the show,
serious Spartan specter of streaking blue.