Poem: On Kensington Avenue

				In Toronto, there is an area called Kensington Market that is colorfully ethnic with all the associated sites and sounds that excite the senses. It is an area that is very much an inner city cornucopia of all things between that which is poor and middle class. It is also an area that is not without the derelicts and the forsaken. One late afternoon as I was walking down Kensington Avenue from the market, I sat for a moment on the stoop of a step outside a home. I didn’t think I was in violation of anyone’s private domain, but an older woman came out to question what I was doing there. I assured her straight away that I was just taking a break, and I suppose I didn’t appear to be any threat to her, or her property because we engaged in a little chat. She mentioned that she had lived on Kensington Avenue for many years and knew just about everything there was to know about the neighborhood. Then, after our conversation, I continued down the street and noticed a man — a derelict, sleeping on an old sofa by the side of the street that someone had thrown out. I sat down the on curb of the street just off to the side and wrote... On Kensington Avenue Mrs. Appleby lived down the street, from Derelic T who lived without sofa cushions or sofa legs on a sofa on Kensington Avenue. ( I think he lived ) ( he looked dead ) Mrs. Appleby said She knew everyone On her street But because it was Her Street She didn’t know Derelic T and where he lived and how he looked dead. Derelic ( T ) ( he ) ( he ) and me and Mrs. Appleby would agree: When you laugh, the world laughs with you When you cry, you cry ( and die ) alone. Copyright © 1999 by Paul Anthony Belfiglio