The street lamp leaked white upon the rippled pond
smearing half-moons of light and then beyond
the paper tearing sound of cars rushing
to somewhere, maybe to families sleeping.
In warm blanket caves they sleep and dream.
The cigarette I smoked burned a lonesome gleam
and it seemed mingled with the taste of you,
the coconut and cream perfume of you.
Later I played you a nocturne, Chopin's
E Flat Opus Nine; and my heart opened
to those notes like a rose in evening rain.
"I wanted to feel this way," I explained,
my soul somber from the music's power.
Without a word you got up to shower.
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