But Giselle had dropped her monkey yesterday into the courtyard closed to all. Nothing spurs the poet laureate more than a grand-daughter in need.
I showed up early, morning traffic duking it out with lilacs. No sign of the monkey.
Yesterday, hearing the story from Giselle's mother, my daughter Emmaline, I hadn't absorbed the courtyard scene. I knew it generally as a grey, concrete pit where nothing grows or breathes or colours.
I threw my poet laureate's weight around, activating first one circulation desk worker then a second. They initiated a two-pronged plan. I supervised.
One, call maintenance. Two, security. Somehow, the five of us zeroed in on the monkey, in the hand of the maintenance guy, which re-appeared from a City of Regina garbage can on 12th Avenue.
He wiped it off and handed it to me, with a "really sorry, really sorry."
And beyond: an idea to film the poet laureate's return to his home town in late July or least toss candy to kids during the parade (to be enjoyed from a vintage convertible, say a '65 Chev).
But job one was to hand over the monkey.