I walk up Clinton Street to buy
a pack of cigarettes at four a.m. On the
corner under the streetlight are
two people encased in each other like the war
is over and the street is celebrating.
Their bikes dropped beside them,
lay abandoned for the occasion.
The scene of a crime.
I want to know.
They ran into each other after
many months of not, dropped to lock up.
They rode into each other, invited
guests of circumstance.
They rode home together, a simple
thing creates this scene.
I lower my eyes to the street.
In a pause, he says to her,
I wouldn’t do anything with you
unless it was in color,
and I wish it true.