Before I burble my way into embarrassment. I chickened out when this was published and left the dedication off. So now might be a time to recover the loss.
Alleluia
(For Mr. Cohen.)
Light blazed
from every word you wrote
and every song you sang
transformed each ordinary day.
I was the weekday child, who waits
outside the weekend fair.
Your writing was my ticket,
my promise of exhilaration.
In my chapel-haunted childhood
you were high priest, cantor,
troubadour and fool.
When you’re gone
who’ll write love songs
I can understand?
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