I first appeared where I had no right to be

in the land where no one wanted me,

an accidental artifact of sex and time.

“Stop the train!

I have to be born!”

So I found myself on earth

a wailing worm

gormless and stateless in Linz,

the last born son of those

whom god had nudged

to leave Europe

by killing all their relatives.

“Get out of your country, leave the city where you live,

Forget the family who lie buried here.”

So I had no choice.

I had to come with them.

They set out.

They hove to in Halifax.

And met their friends in Montreal.

And travelled toToronto.

And came to Canada in cold October.

And me just carried by the wave,

Washed up on Wellesley,

A youngling on Yonge.

And I have been travelling ever since

And still have not arrived at the promised land.

Where I am is neither here nor there, but when.

My bags are always packed

and filled with who I am.

I have not found a home

but am wanted on the voyage.

I am the voyage just waiting for the final call.

“Stop the train!

I have to get off!”

But this time, I won’t be shouting.