I smell ozone in the air.
The parking lot is full of cars.
The soccer players return from their game.
I have not written poetry for a long time.
Today was a strange day:
I went to the bank.
I had an argument with my future wife about nothing.
I helped you look for your keys and fed you tea that was too hot.
Somewhere in between—
I misremembered something from Gatsby;
You half-recalled a line from "Prufrock";
You spoke fondly and sadly of Cheever;
I remembered Ginsberg in line at the bookstore.
I made a bad joke about your hair.
The smooth and treacherous Crowchild ran.
It began to rain.
I dropped you off and went home
thinking of the fine filigree of your soul
and the last line of the poem
which is this.