A Cold, Cold Night
01.04.07

It’s a cold, cold night in here
though it’s sixty and rising outside.

“I’m a writer--
don’t hang up,” I said.
He laughed. “I’m a pianist.
We’re even.”

And I stumbled down love,
the vertigo of a grand staircase
carpeting each twist.

I would write three hundred words
on his wide-bridged nose
and he would watch
while he played Chopin,
never looking down to ensure
a true note-- they fell just right,
slipping and stringing
until we were drowning
in a culture all our own.

We had a garden
in the bathroom,
watered by shower steam.
Snapdragons drank the warmth
like slow-brewed tea
and stretched tendrils to the tile,
seeking the source of such heat.

It’s a cold, cold night in here
with only my words
to cordialwarm the silence.

It’s a cold, cold night in here.