The Day MJ Died

It is 4:55 in Vancouver a Thursday,
the day after St. Jean Baptiste yes
it is 2009 and I try to call Heather
on the bus home from work but she doesn't pick up
and I think maybe she's working
the night shift at the hospital and
won't be home for hours.

I get off at Vine St. and
straight to the market where the
avacados spring back from my touch
and all the berries are rolling downhill
from ripe - everything smelling
of summer fingers.

It rained this morning,
but now blue skies. I get asked for
change twice before the bakery.
I want plain bread. Four rolls
to rip apart.

When I enter the apartment
he is listening to Billie Jean.
All the wires in the world
buzz with jokes
but I can only think of that snowstorm
in February of 1984. How I lay in the dark
of my best friend's bedroom
listening to Thriller
while the city filled with snow
and six blocks over my sister was born.