He's all in black, wearing a jacket on a warm day, and seated at the bus stop,loaded down with a suitcase on wheels and a couple of shopping bags. When he asks me for the time, I can't place his accent.
He says he's on his way to the Paint-in at Moss Street and offers to read me a poem.
Oh heck,why not? I think, so he pulls sheaves of vellum from a sort of large wallet, and unfolds a large sheet which, fortunately, bears large handwriting.
Unfortunately, he spends a little too much time on the preamble, and the bus pulls up before he can begin reading.
This never happens in Ottawa.
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