sitting in a motel room with the ghost of tom waits
sunset outside thru the window and deepening fall colours
remembering the flavours of montreal next to this erie canal
flavours and aromas and textures and long shivering kisses
trucks lit up like christmas rumble past as my fish and chip dinner settles
another layer of my self peels back
landing softly on cat like feet and slinking into the night
and i decide i like whats been exposed
its got a whiskey and smoke flavour
a real patina, the blues practically seep from this place