It was winter,
but the oaks burned
with autumn fire.
We sat at a small table
framed by the neon red border
of the window.
It had been a long time.
—So, how’ve you been?
Not so good… at first I thought it was because of you,
because I didn’t have you anymore,
but now I know that isn’t true.
I laughed a low, sad laugh.
How about you?
—Bad.
Why?
—Well, because of you,
because you left me.
We both laughed.
You leaned forward.
You know, some nights I think about calling you…
asking you to come over. A few times I almost did it.
—Oh?
But what if I called? What would you do?
You probably wouldn’t even come. Would you?
This tall wooden building, leaning hard,
a little cousin to Pisa’s tower,
its wood warped in just the right way
by the waters of a nearly forgotten flood,
could not stand here much longer.
—I don’t know.
You frowned.
Atáscate ahora que hay lodo.
This poem was previously published by Papers Publishing: Issue 2: “Sit With Me”, December 4, 2023.