poetry

Lightning Over Bloor

We had taken our places at the table, For some words after the break, On various comings and goings. And when—twice—the professor said, “hope,” The celestial fireworks following the verb Had us rocketing skywards too. I had always suspected, The poet’s powerful leanings, but now I reckoned, How few exchanges we had actually come to know, Between pedagogy, providence, and rain.