Love Poem

Dumb luck, all this: the nineteenth floor and us,
the bar, the vintage lamps and L-shaped couch:

we give each other haircuts and we plan
to go to Seoul and Budapest and Buenos

Aires: at the Indiana Dunes
we eat potato salad and skip stones:

sweet pickles make the difference. Summerful.
Cornfields quilt the drive to Michiana

from Chicago: no, a lie: but one
that smacks of Midwest summer and its humid

golden muck: we get engaged and fuck
with the air conditioner on, then eat Italian 

food on a patio once the sun has cooled:
smooth burrata, wine good and unsweet.  

Cardiothoracic 

Of the heart and chest. Perhaps because I
have not studied Greek the second c looks
wrong: I expect an s. I keep butter 

unrefrigerated now, now that I organize
a kitchen; the choice feels less essential
than the making of the choice.

Vistula Street, Elkhart, Indiana, driving
back to Chicago on Christmas, reminds
me of Poland, her longest river, 

the snowless winter walks I took. When
we get back, we have bowls of cereal and
share a starfruit for our Christmas dinner:

this seems a feast. Lake effect snow snows
on the Michigan side, not the Chicago side.

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash.