Five Hours
I drove five hours through the spine of Ontario,
two lanes humming like an old Hip song,
the sky pressing low, waiting to exhale,
Bobcaygeon awaits like some half-remembered dream,
a town know for a melody, lit by a myth.
I stood by the water where Gord must have stood,
where the past drapes itself over rooftops and docks,
and I waited for the stars to reveal themselves,
not hypothetical, not dull, not lost to the city’s haze,
but sharp as a whispered truth, rising one by one.
