Fuck a first date. This is true love; dinner and a movie were never going to cut it. You charted the course, I brought the stash. Five hundred googly eyes. We crept through the streets after midnight. Snuck past the stinking canal with its algae blooms gently swaying, with its mutant fish, streetlights skimming the surface. Past shadows hiding in the underpass. Bums and lovers, like us. We stuck ‘em on the busts and statues. On the vacant eyeballs of war generals. On the regal butt cheeks of prime ministers. On the bronzed breasts of famous feminists. On bus stop ads about venereal disease. On the headlights of idling cars. On Byward Market beer taps. On bathroom stalls. On the showcase in the cake shop. On tips for the waitress at the Elgin Street Diner. On the pool deck in the Chateau Laurier. On the Oscar Peterson monument under the art gallery, the one that plays old Oscar’s songs, the ones I love most, his famous fingers tripping over themselves on hymns to freedom and night trains and honey drippers. We slow danced under his googly stare, Mars and Venus mocking the world. Oh I got it bad, and that ain’t good.