I’m writ­ing this in my head
some­where between Belleville and Oshawa
as Leonard Cohen croons to me
on the stereo about miss­ing something.

I’m try­ing to put this
together in verse;
it’s the only way that makes sense.
Maybe because the songs he sings are too good,
or I’m still affected by the last time I had
strep throat and we read
Susan Musgrave poems in bed.

So much for swear­ing
that I’ll never write like this again.

I won­der why she ends her phrases
the way she does,
about whether her titles come from
those clever lit­tle moments,
or vice-versa.

Maybe I can fig­ure out how they do it
and I can express what it felt like to hug
her before leav­ing,
about how I didn’t real­ize how hard I was
doing it until I let go and felt her
breathe again.

She wouldn’t admit that she’d miss me
until I did it first. She had
said it more than me, last time, you see.

She had paid it for­ward,
now it was time for me to pay it back.