In Kensington Market
In Kensington market,
full of small purveyors
of meats and vegetables,
of soaps and leathers,
and roti shops,
and pho restos,
and bubble tea spots,
I looked for you.
I searched mindfully,
and desperately,
and keenly, waiting
for the perfect glimpse
of the perfect being
that is you. But I
came up empty.
I tried the health food stores,
thinking holistically,
but no luck,
except for the ginger pills
to quell my melancholy
and our distance.
I tried Blackbird Bakery
thinking that the kouign amann,
even just the aroma, might
have drawn you in, but,
again, to no avail.
It must be the sunsets
that took you away,
leaving me empty of heart,
caught on the reeds of a song,
a bittersweet tune,
without an end.
Still, I couldn’t find you,
because you weren’t there.
No, you were already nestled
in the hollow of my heart.
Emerging from a long professional career, Stephen Grant is a Toronto writer and poet. He has penchant for Maine Coon cats and art, the latter on which he is currently writing,