At the first...

At the first warm from winter's delight
There were sporadic bicyclists launching down the road,
En masse, two wheels conjoined harmoniously,
Whether appearing lackadaisical or spinning furiously.

Helen looked out the window and remarked
Upon a symbol attached to the rear of a red Riviera.
"Isn't that a symbol of the Good News?
"It's an automobile.
"No, it's a dove--right?

"...Oh, that."

Naggar was a friend who would talk with me
Late into the hours of the night
About a great many things.
Helen would sit at one end of the couch,
Saying nothing, listening,
Watching the Elvis clock intently from time to time
(all this I noticed as an aside--you might say
like, it's legs swinging back and forth, back and forth,
her eyes, side to side, side to side).

Back and forth--the television face dark
Her face illuminated red by the bulb of the lamp
(that friends from a theme part
had forgotten), smoothing her blue blouse, her Ben Sherman

--Our conversation went, picking up threads
Of one idea and falling gently into the other
As though having no purpose but to allow our words
To mingle in the static warm of company

When anything else was possible.

It went on like this for some time, unaware
(as these events tend to), until Helen
Rose and went quickly away
To rummage in the kitchen. The sound of glass.

Then--"Elijah! Elijah!
"What is it? What's the matter?
"There's no more wine left..."
And silence followed as hollow as silence at the end of a song played loudly,
Accompanied by a tick-tock of the second hand clicking.