November In The City

There was never any question—
not that I'd heard—
that made me smile and shake my head
like my ma used to when pa took her by the waist
and swung her around.
Or was there? This is the first that I remember.

We were neither sick nor weak.
We were not fools.
That's the nice thing about us:
We are not fools.

You were sweet in an intimate kind of way.
I'd dream of talking to you for hours on end;
understanding you, fully, like I'd meant to once;
sitting, watching every minute pass.

Ah, that last is what I best remember. We'd always watch them.

And you. You'd dream of smaller things,
like being around me;
like holding hands.
Like that phone call I'd promised you.

We'd both dreamed of that.

Through the words and the smiles and the fleeting, hidden thoughts
I shook my head and shined up at you.
"Will you still be there?"
Always—so you shined back.