Gord
Brooke Collins
Dirt roads out near Tavistock, Stompin’ Tom screams take me back The billboard among haybills Telling us we are Loved Sitting in a library in a city that is not mine, Struck by the knowledge that I am so alone, Yet one call away from home I light up my laptop and loop Fiddlers Green Silhouetted against the lonely end of the rink, I am waving through netted fingers, No, focus on the game he mouths The day he died you text me in math class Tell me it was like losing an old friend I see your face in his I see his heart in yours
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