Things I saw on my way to work, James Sandham

Old men in Little Portugal who looked like they had never been anything but old men and were born to be sixty. Their skin coloured terracotta but soft like worn leather, in undershirts they traded plants in the street while chewing the tips of unfiltered cigarettes.

A film crew on Shaw Street setting up gear. They were stationed out front of an old unused school, its walls and windows cracked and despairing, probably shooting something depressing.

A fat woman in Bellwoods park. She was feeding the pigeons from a pram full of bread, in the shadiest part, and her green eyes were green like the trees leaves around her, languid and moist, sagging and heavy. Though the sun had just risen, the hot humid air was wet like a river, and she was a lily pad, bloated and quivering.

Crazies on Queen Street shouting at ghosts, dressed in plaid flannel, their dusty tanned skin cracked and worn like the sidewalk.

People on bikes who wove through the traffic, like leaves in a stream, like flies in a forest. I rode behind them, the city rose before us.