We saw a January production of Twelfth Night in Cincinnati

and on the walk back to the car I noticed

that the tall buildings, scraped with forgotten names

and speckled with florescent stars,

were like dark ice picks puncturing the low clouds

of this overcast night—the slow leak of snow,

wind-whipped, kissed our faces

as we walked stiff on the sidewalk,

your hand in my coat pocket.

 

I told you about my dream of bigger-city life—

the murmur of people and the cough of cars,

or the haunted silence of a late night,

when people would collect in pockets of the city

like coins, crowded together for shows, movies, or plays.

 

But you said that sounded awful,

that the city was too busy, too loud, too many people,

and you’d never been interested in moving

away from the quiet of our town.

 

In the car, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

sang “I Have Loved You Wrong”;

the soft drums were like empty boats bobbing against a dock,

and as the snow peppered the windshield

and the heat thawed our fingertips,

I realized they were right.