The Year the City Emptied: After Baudelaire

I Have Not Forgotten

I have not forgotten, neighbor,
Our red brick townhouse, tiny and quiet
With the window always cracked open
Even in winter, and us rolling together
Into the middle of the dented mattress,
A rooster in someone's courtyard crowing
In the gray, lording it over his harem
Of illegal chickens; where like gods
We couldn't stop being naked;
Those evenings the sun, superbly streaming,
Broke its sheaf of colors on the glass,
Seemed a giant inquisitive eye
Watching our long quiet suppers,
It's reflections spritzing like candlelight
On frugal tablecloth
And on the strewn pages of your manuscripts.