This is the part where I hang up the phone. Sunday in Harvard Square. We'll miss the previews but not the movie. Did you leave your scarf under the seat? No, you left it with me. And all the other admirers. This is the part where I hang up the phone. The open windows of Boston. The dried cranberries and soggy flakes in milk. The wet towel harms the finish on the floor. This is the part where I hang up the phone. As rare as Fourth of July parking spaces. As hard as this is. As cold as the snow that sank from cuff into boot and snuck its wet way into wool socks, like someone who slides slowly into bed without a wrinkle, trying not to wake the other sleeper. This is the part where I hang up the phone. The glass nights in Gloucester. The long yard of the sun and the dogs of leaves. The ring of the phones on the paper-laid counters in the houses of the people whose houses I call. This is the part where I hang up the phone.
posted by Adam at 6:40 PM [edit]

The lie that love was lost

I would vote you into any office
if you would let me proclaim my support
from all the balconies of this windy city.

The traffic lights have fallen asleep
and are no longer charging us. The people
of this city are free. And heartbroken,
with change in their pockets.

I would lose you in a gail
if I did not tie you down.
The buildings bent over
in canopy from the weight
of undetected lives.

They keep you here. That is a lie,
but a good one, and I made it carefully
for you. Will you look at it and call it
what it is? For me, and in all this wind?
posted by Adam at 1:50 AM [edit]