the wonderful waiting for you

What a garden of memories of you
to pluck from -
but I won't;
here,
I'll choose one to admire
for a moment.
I pass the fruit,
the flowers,
go back before the love stuff
sprung at all -
I stare
into the happy ivy
sunning on the wall.
I focus. Easy.

Weeks ago
when the brick was bare -

My music theory homework
lay defeated in a slow but definite battle,
book closed up,
coffee cup long dry.
Eleven PM was guarding Decatur from the sky.
Or just telling the night
not to waste its heaven
on a place with plenty.

For victory,
the last half of my blunt
I had walked the glistening block,
puffed,
gone back,
and so sat at the wrought iron, dizzily blissed,
lazily people-watching
for your stride.
It would be quick, I knew, and full of your permanent freefall,
hedonistic intent,
your diving approach to life.
One of the endless things about you
I really fucking like.

One moment, the gold light inside
leaking on the slick black streets -
then
you were swooping down onto my table,
the heavy, fast, but unrushed
depth of your greeting kiss
visiting my lips.
Then the table
full of your wadded up tips.
Three tours,
two hundred dollars,
you said;
more money than
was warranted.
Oh, the rest of the night,
I don't know -
what stays with me most
is the way you whisk
me away,
bowl to pan to plate -
your effortless benedict.
Breakfast
the next day,
yes,
but the night -
you bought me a bracelet
of evil eyes,
bright red.
It'd protect me,
you said.