At the window

The room consists of shadow, the kind found in city alleys with metallic garbage cans overturned and exposed

by stray cats. Against the brick wall a man's features stood out, the back of your shaved head,

the rotten peach fuzz of your profile. Your body was pressed against hers like spiderwort petals preserved,

the way our thumbs were once in a room of steady breeze and good mornings. We sat before this very window. We picked the right two and pricked them well

enough with safety pin and uncrossed fingers. The bustle from the street around the corner or the alley cats fussing over chicken bones and spoiled milk may have entered in

and muffled your words, but you certainly said aloud as you brought your open mouth to an eager ear, and you more than promised,

you would come draw these curtains each new day.