Late Night Blues

I am acquainted with your voice.
In the restaurants, late at night
as the busboys move plates along the table,

the tink of glasses falling
into their buckets,
everything spills through,
and I hear you.

This goes to you,

to shaded pavements and kissed limbs
of some far reverie,
beside the naked tree
and nectar of your body.

On nights like this, I could have loved you.

But the breeze is brief
between the immediacy of our memories.
It calls out

late night blues
late night blues

I know