over Leslieville
picking at his guitar
while the wind cried Mary.
I passed it on the 501
daily,
heading westbound
into the thick of the smoke
the cogs of the grind.
On that east wall,
where that guitar shop used to be,
how many musicians
would say
"I bought it at that guitar shop with Jimi on the wall?"
as they we're sitting in their basements
showing off their shiny new Gibson.
Now that guitar shop is no more,
another domino falling
in the ever changing chameleon
we call a city.
Now it's a tea shop,
and where Jimi used to be
is a psychedelic confusion.
How did they know
Jimi didn't like to sip
on an orange pekoe, or even
a camomile after a show?
Next time I'm on the 501
heading westbound,
I'll keep my eyes in my book,
do my best not look up
just before Leslie,
I'll try not to mourn
you Jimi.
I know that your vibe
is still reverberating
within these confines,
smiling down upon
those good natured
merchants
who go by "Mom and Pop"
staving off the attack
from the big box stores
Keeping people
with tipsy heads
and full bellies
in funky restaurants,
and helping them
rise to greet a good morning,
in Tango Palaces
So long Jimi,
glad it wasn't a wrecking ball,
could have stopped it if
I had some of that voodoo,
but no such luck,
I'll be strong
you'll see me turn into a beast
I'll be standing next to a mountain.