4-6 An Excuse To Smile

if I met you in Portland,

maybe I wouldn't have,
the cello always playing,
when I touch another man's hand,
I wouldn't think,

about counting the breathes between,
when I ask another man to dance,

nor when I walk into a book store,
would I casually browse the magazine aisle,
knowing someone like you,
might happen to be there,
awkwardly smiling,
sitting on the bench,
not waiting, and waiting,
like me,

nor would I hesitate,
when I lean in to kiss another man,
with the rain dripping off my fedora,
thinking about how the rain spilled
of the rim of my ranger hat,
as I said goodbye to you,

maybe,
but I didn't meet you in Portland,
and now,

when rain drops fall,
the cello is always playing,
counting the breathes between,
as I sit next to you on a couch,
both in our pj's, you writing in your journal,
me in mine, as it would be,

if I had met you in a book store,
in Portland.