Friends, 

To think that each of those windows 
tells a story in this city’s Great Book. 
A few lines —not pages or chapters — 
written by us all.  He and I met some 
of you in those rooms, loved many.  
Elbows on wine-freckled linens, 
we ate & drank at tables humble & 
bold.  Feasted, we wrote our own fiction 
or tentative truths.  Some of you opted 
out, or away.  Others slipped their names 
over yours in doorbell name-holders. 
You found us in this city, him and me, writing
our banal, beautiful & forgettable story. 
Him & me. Him and me.