A man is cuffed to a
wooden ladder. His body
transfixed as if the old
hag is sitting on his chest. He
cannot run or act. A piano
key depressed, jammed
and silent. A cold, damp
engine that will not turn.
His only movement lies
in his right knee which
can swing from side
to side. His face
is also free of ice and
accepts the whippings of
the north wind through
the tunnel of Kelly Block.
He is beautiful like the
frozen buildings, long
icicles adorning elbows
in a crystal wingspan. A
hero’s pinions. He, however,
will not linger until the end
of winter, a living cenotaph
for the man who died
in the part-accident. After
ten minutes, they will come
with chisels and break him off
and carry him to Dora’s
to thaw and feed
him pea soup and coffee.
Upon his aqueous revival, they
are surprised to meet a very
young man — a boy, even.
Every café and restaurant near
Kelly Block stays open all day
and all night to keep the firemen
just warm enough to continue
their work. He has frost bite
on his nose and a hole in his leg
where the chisel miscalculated.
It is forty below and most
of Winnipeg is asleep.
