One March night, at the end of winter A Midwestern wind snapping at my brown coat I para-dropped into your city to make Another (the final) attempt to break the siege.

There I took your always cold hands, Squirreled them in my pockets, Quickly leaned over and kissed you.

You later observed, this was without The usual tentativeness that my lips had in renewing introductions with yours.

Then instead to the expected ball, You took me to a quite household That was thirty odd years in making.

As if watching these two people together Would provide us the recipe to their secret skill (Recipe: Two large hearts, infinite patience, never Ever giving up on giving one self gladly, happily) To create a green river of peaceable laughter To invite others as we were invited to drink at.

I borrowed and conjured up this: an old car for me, Sets of mismatched wine glasses and plates in the kitchen, A desk flanked by plants I would help you keep. Books, Shelves of books with our initials and then two, maybe three, kids.

Was it more than these you came to desire, After I left at dawn, leaning into the cold, That you fucked three people the very next week?