This Doesn't Happen Every Day



Yesterday I met you for the first time.

The organist was practicing in the empty cathedral
and I noticed you had tears in your eyes too.
We sat there three rows apart and cried together,
then walked blinking into the sunny street.
We talked about music.
We bought each other hot dogs
and fed the crumbs to the pigeons.
Soon we were collecting crumbs about each other:
You have an older sister, and a cat named Smee.
When you’re painting you listen to opera.
You leave dishes in the sink for days.
(Housecleaning isn’t your thing.)
You like cold pizza.
You majored in literature and work at an ad agency.
Your eyes are brown and green,
always looking at me when I glance your way.
Your voice is warm and confident
and you have an easy laugh.

It took an hour before we asked each other’s names.
I wrote your number on my hand
and ran back late from lunch.

Your machine answered when I called.

If yesterday will be a memory,
I want it to have more chapters first.




© 2009  Michael Yanega
17 May 2009







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