A car backfires in the parking lot
faking a gunshot, and a flicker
Crosses the Tim Horton’s, riding radio
waves that hold some simulacra
Of Betty Everett’s voice, at once both
perfect and temporary, maintaining
It’s in his kiss with some authority,
in fact insisting on it. Is it in his eyes?
Oh no, you’ll be deceived. Is it in his sighs?
He’ll make believe. (The instrumental
Break, a weirdly detached marimba solo)
Is it in his face? No, no that’s just his charm
In his warm embrace? No, that’s just his arm.
Meanwhile, at my table I’m trying to make
A little sanctuary inside it all,
made out of a coffee, a newspaper
And someone’s collected poems. The world
presses in and I can’t press back.
She’s singing about what’s real, what’s
in his kiss and everything I need
to know about being in love suddenly
is there – bang!– it becomes clear
That the kiss Betty Everett’s singing about
is my kiss: it was my kiss that it was in.