Yew Tree

if time is a cube then behind some secret door
it’s still 1997, the cops were brutal that year,
that was before cell phones and dashcams,
one cop put a gun in my face just because
i lived next to a chop shop, thought i knew
something i didn’t, three of them beat their
batons on a bleeding man on the sidewalk
in front of show world just because he was
drunk and anonymous. i saw it all, am still
seeing it all. smirking bullies who left me
tongue-tied, the perfect comeback arrives
decades behind schedule, they’ve all
moved on to costco memberships and
family-friendly vans, traded gloriously
feathered mullets for sweaty combovers.
they’re long gone; i’m rooted to the spot
like that 8000-year-old yew tree on the
discovery channel. still remember a hot
safety on a mustard-coloured mercury
topaz, drinking and driving and crying
to the end of the queen’s highway,
st. christopher and alice cooper riding
shotgun, just to admire the buffalo
skyline, salute her immortal architects.

Darrell Epp is the author of 3 poetry collections: Imaginary Maps, After Hours, and Sinners Dance. His next book, Mechanical Monkeys, will be published by Mosaic Press in 2020. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.