Humane animal slaughter law—
the headline is still on my mind
chickens dumped in electric baths
they cock their heads out the way I do
now trying not to drown in the  disc
count food pool as I chicken out of Lobe
laws down Rue Rideau which means curtain
street so I hold my head up undercover
immigrant in broad daylight
secret accomplice of the beggars on the side
walk outside the crippling state mono
poly liquor store but the math
I do won’t help just as a missile
hits the school on the left bank
I suddenly learn from my Facebook newsfeed
hiding eyes behind smartphone as pasty
ends (that pass by) are easier to face
than blank staring faces and pre
tend the present is elsewhere
and of course it is also
in vertical time while on the horizontal
the homeless Inuit is thirsty here
and now he and I happen to be in the same
town although neither of us is I guess
an Ottawan both foreigners in a city
founded by foreign invaders trans
lating the local Kanata—“village”—
into the anglo “town” which I learn
scrolling down the etymo page comes from the Old
Saxon tun, a fence, or wall
which is still there between me
and you, my love, with your best profile
on the web, we need to trade more personal
contact details please text me I love
to dive into this sea of I-
mages and palpable links to untouchable
lives leaving a mark on my virtual Kitch
issipi while a non-Algonquin algo
rhithm captures the rhythm of the sky
line and automatically sends me on
line to where I am—Ottawa, no kidding,
and given my History another window
pops up blocking my view of the city
pictures: origin of place
name—from adawe, “to trade”…
Trade, be-trayed… What do the elect
rocuted chickens have to trade,
the homeless drunk who can’t afford
a beer? Donno, that’s for the custom
er®s to decide, I’m just a user.