Walking To Work From Bolton Hill, 1979 — For Ann

How I love our spring morning walk to work.
We meet and laugh and let the bus glide by.
The future's distant harbor skyline lurks
As we fall into our familiar stride.

Our meetings are always accidental.
Pure chance, that happens so repeatedly.
Each morning it grows more predictable,
This offer of sweet rolls and black coffee,

And more expected too. Crossing at cross walks,
Stopping at shop windows, we travel along
This same morning route together talking
Of everything. How could this love go wrong?

Our lives are drawn to a collective center.
The buildings are the highest when we enter.