One Saturday
Sat drinking in the pub, long
afternoon moves into short evening
and we are hazy and feel happy.
Cold bright winter sun,
shrill voice of laughter,
and pique of beauty in the starlings, even.
At the bar, you stand close to me and
we hold hands again, for a minute.
In bed, you come across something by Bukowski.
I wish I had written that for you, I say
Well? Why don’t you write me something?
And we are like before -
together in this great, beautiful, murderous city
and when you close your eyes to sleep,
I can again feel my breath upon your naked back.
