The Bed Dreams

It is a faded pink home among the aging warehouses, between the river and the railway tracks. At night the red light pulses against the shadow-veined wall and the bed dreams of the people who used to live here. I dream of Chinese Canadians walking down narrow hallways and a cleaning lady...what was her name? The train pounds its arrythmic beat into my chest. Cars loaded with things we want, things we need and things that are needy of us. The river spits up the last chunks of ice, impatient for the first long draughts of Spring.