JOANNE EPP

Inventory

This morning a golden-crowned kinglet 
in the neighbour’s bush—tiny, smaller than 
a sparrow. They’re only here during migration, 
only seen when I don’t look for them.

A poster on a hydro pole: Trust Fall Hotline. 
For those willing to see what happens.
Today’s paper says a thousand people 
have called the toll-free number.

I put on my winter jacket, first time 
this season, and find coins in the pocket.
I fetch my winter boots from the basement 
and find worn soles, a broken zipper.

Pencils go missing. Snow shovels. 
That building at Portage and Langside, 
gutted by fire. The site filled and levelled, 
weed-grown, as if nothing had been there.

A sign tied to a tree: 
Alec and Luis, please call me. 
I have lost your telephone number! 
Thanks, Barb.

In the attic, my mom and I discover
the doll clothes she made, their brown 
and turquoise still bright. When we try 
to dress the doll, its brittle legs snap. 

Two more old elms come down. 
Two fresh stumps on the boulevard. 
I read their cracks and growth rings: 
maps of lost cities.