Submarine

Today I caught
a middle-aged bald man
wearing your green
plaid shirt. You know,
my favourite one, with
the pocket over your
heart. He sat in our
usual seat on the subway
from St. George to
Bloor, reading the paper.
I couldn't think of anything
else but the smell of
your green plaid shirt,
and the way your eyes
shone when you looked
at me, holding my hand
as we arrived at the
interchange station,
and the smile on your
face as I shot you my
funny looks. He turned
the pages of the newspaper
while the announcer said
"arriving at Bay, Bay station"
and as he got up to leave
I could do nothing but stare
at his empty seat.

And you were gone.