I looked forward to crossing the Ambassador Bridge
but ended up in the Tunnel to Canada
that has no grand name or view.

An old girlfriend from out of state
thought Tunnel to Canada was the name
of a downtown restaurant.

I emerged into the light to answer questions
at the border after accidentally drifting
into the frequent flyer lane.

My life has been a series of gentle decapitations
and yet another curious head pops up again
in suspicious wonder at survival.

Out of the darkness into the light
and already angry men asking questions
about changing lanes. O, Canada,
I hum in my own anxious tunnel.

They have been so nice to me in Canada.
I want to end every sentence I write with Canada.

I have burned many inelegant bridges.
Nothing like the bridges
to Canada. I want to end every sentence with bridges.

I misspelled inelegant so that it looks like intelligent.
I have also burned many intelligent
bridges with my Stupidity Matches—
waterproof, strike-anywhere matches.

I want to end every sentence with matches.
Don’t play with matches.
I never lit a tennis match.
I never played a match

made in heaven.
I want to end every sentence with heaven.

I had a good meal at Tunnel to Canada.
It’s a nude restaurant, but the novelty
has worn off. Clothes are back.
The lights are back
on. It’s turning into a dark restaurant.

The meal was all potato chips
and poker chips.
A special at the casino.

It is hard to end many lines with casino
given that Windsor only has one.
Finally, Detroit legalized casinos
to compete with Windsor’s casinos.

Though for many years I was a dumbass
teen, I was never beheaded and continued as a dumbass
in my twenties.

They finally let me go through customs
at the end of the tunnel without even searching
me. Me, I am still searching.

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