This morning that would’ve meant
a field of crumpled snow if we
were in Vermont, brought only
a crumpled sky to Texas,
and you and Alba for breakfast
tacos at Torres Taco Haven
where you admired my table
next to the jukebox and
said, Good place to write.
You promised we could come back
and have tacos together and sit
here with coffee and our writer’s
notebooks whenever we want.
And nobody would have to talk
if we didn’t want to. Next time
you come by my house, I want
to take you up to the roof.
At sunset the grackles
make a wonderful racket.
You can come whenever you want.
And nobody will have to talk
if we don’t want to.