Love: That First Time
by Linda Cue
Never mind these last days of spring.
Still, I’m walking as the sun sets.
Where’s everyone? There should be others
out here. I see them in dreams gazing
out from office windows with the blinds
pulled down. They are not different
from me in the streets on a Sunday
looking straight ahead avoiding
my face in the glass of restaurants
book stores, and cafes.
You are not here. Though, I wait for you
leaning inside the frame of door ways
and at bus stops. I look up, from
a book, a newspaper, or away, from
a conversation to discover the outline of a
mistaken face. Sometimes, a long way away.
There are walls, boundaries, a trap, right?
Like the trees in line along the streets
with leaves even at dusk bright
so bright pulling my eyes up up
into its blends of greens. Then,
nothing above but a deep blue sky.
I could live there, stay there,
Last spring you took a train
to Buffalo, New York to
watch the trees, from Florida
to Ohio sway in the dark.
Then, stand without leaves
from Ohio to Buffalo finally
in opened fields of
No one knows about your trip
to see the snow.
No one knows about
any of your trips.
So, where to go now?
Inside the Cuban café
on the corner of main street
to sit beneath the warm
air of the ceiling fan or
out front under umbrellas
with the white women
smiling at each other behind
sunglasses and coffee cup?
No one would know
I was there. No one
would be surprised.