Yoda Olinyk

Outside Union Station, 

a man sits in a broken wheelchair,

sloshing around in the murky water of his mind

as he waits for the Monday men in their swanky suits —

the ones who walk into their tailored grey buildings — to look at him.

​

Sloshing around in the murky water of his mind,

he stares into the sun because it’s the only thing that looks back.

The ones who walk into their tailored grey buildings don’t look at him —

they are too busy staring at their reflections in their phones.

​

He stares into the sun because it’s the only thing that looks back.

The only thing he begs for is acknowledgement but

they are too busy staring at their reflections in their phones.

He whispers, "Tell her I care about her," over and over.

​

The only thing he begs for is acknowledgement from

the Monday Men in their swanky suits.

He whispers, "Tell her I care about her," over and over

outside union station. A man sits broken in a wheelchair.

Yoda Olinyk loves to make people comfortable, which is too bad because she is a poet. Yoda believes poetry should reveal our sharp corners and writes mostly about addiction and family, and is currently working on a book about reproductive rights in Canada. Yoda's poems have been published with Button Poetry, Sky Island Journal, Free Verse, and Quail Bell.