William Doreski

In the parking garage at dawn

the rows of cars nose the lean

moon setting over the suburbs.

I lie back and listen to ticks

of engines cooling; the air,

although November, sultry

enough to spoon and eat.

Driving this far this early

has warped me to fit a space

I usually don’t occupy.

Later I’ll share this space with you

and your frankly remodeled outlook.

We’ll stroll in the Public Garden

past the great bronze Washington

and sit beneath your favorite tree.

We’ll paw each other like children

and pretend our lives haven’t passed

in gales of debt and politics

but have birthed themselves over

and over until perfected.

But for one anodized moment

here in the parking garage

the noon settling in the west

is a hole through which I’m passing

to reach the innocence beyond.

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS