They walk ahead of me
almost holding hands,
a puffy red heart almost suspended
above them in a conjoined dream cloud,
and I almost stab it with my cigarette,
send it sputtering and whining into the night.
Tomorrow while I'm taking out the trash
I imagine each of them will be dictating
love letters to a friend, each planning their ascent
and subsequent colonization of the other:
she'll teach him to wear deodorant more often,
take off his socks before they go to bed,
while he'll convince her Hemingway is a saint
and Emily Dickinson is Martha Stewart.
While I'm rinsing off a spoon, running the garbage disposal,
they'll be on the phone together, waltzing and necking
in the darkness of speech, holding hands, swinging trapeze
on the telephone lines.
They walk ahead of me, each
swirling and swooning, tumbling into
and filling the other without touching.
He is the Atlantic, vast and dark,
she the Pacific, easy and warm.
I am Lake Owens
or Lake Ossipee perhaps.
Perfectly good water,