(Anything to Get) Rid of the Shine

His tongue: young asphalt
where acid tabs vanish on Queen

Street’s sharp neon of Graffti 
Alley. This, no Bay Street

Boy. Far away
from sacred

paintings at the AGO, he goes
where Rembrandt never stood

with a spray can, and laughs
when pigeons shit

on the smooth edges
of our outdoor Henry Moore.