Before red and purple arrangements
illuminate our faces in the cerulean sky,
before a fountain of sparks shower the sidewalk,
before the smell of black powder, before
thunderstorms cool the night in ways
reserved for golden months, she asks me
how I’m doing when I arrive, and after
thinking it over a moment, I tell her much
better now. She asks if I had a rough day
and I think no, not really, I mean better now
that I’m here, breathing your air, and that
you’re you and nobody else is.
Evening Panoply 