In his first book of poetry, Robertson’s singular touch is punchy movement and clean musicality. Poems about getting old and not liking it. About getting high on Christmas Eve. About a hole in the sky where Toronto’s landmark Honest Ed’s used to be. About killing mosquitoes and petting strange dogs and a homeless man who feeds the pigeons who are always happy to see him. About tuning out and turning off and unplugging. About friends who’ve died and confused skyscrapers on foggy days and Nabokov in his underwear. About shame in the evening, regret in the morning, and, if there’s time, a nap in the afternoon. About a world where the Clash is classic rock and experience killed curiosity and the corpse wondered what’s next. And “Why I Am Not a Poet,” an introductory memoir about growing up and becoming a writer in Toronto in the 80s and 90s—it’s long gone bars, bookstores, and people—is a lively preface to the poetry.