Thursday’s sun was circled with haze.
From the sixteenth floor, it looked like red froth
falling into the Hudson. My silent gaze,
covered by some blurry cloth,
looked out to the south.
I saw your soft mouth
in the river’s curve.
My body was one living nerve.
The day crawled. You never called.
Still the phones howled like wolves.
The intercom droned through useless stalls
where frigid hands stayed covered with gloves.
Al said he had the flu.
Tom discussed the next issue.
I thought about life and choices.
I listened for you in distant voices.
Surprised to see me working late
Jan asked why I’d stayed so long.
I smiled like an ad for dental plates.
I danced and answered her in song.
She laughed. We spoke of promises kept.
On the bus ride home, I slept.
At Paddy’s, Bob talked of Oregon.
I watched your chair, and drank one.
I stepped outside. Street lights glowed
like your eyes. Friday it snowed.
Roger Armbrust
