When I was in Ottawa, abandoned and enthralled, breathing in the heat waves shimmering off the people and the cats and that lazy raccoon that I later named Mondrian in my mind after I saw my first one, I did not look for you. Nor in the malls, the halls, the magazines, in the new towns, or down the old roads, on silver screens, between the book shelves, down on my knees hands in the clover. Never. I took you for granted. Oh hey. There you are. I know myself Far, far, far more than I let on I know what I am doing. Regardless. Love is such an easy word. Besides, it's a given, We can keep it there, easy, big, broad like the straight black painted lines, it's nice. Effortless. Quiet. Assured. So then, I guess that it is not the word.