Outside our window the symphonic sounds
of the city rose into the room.
Car horns, excited voices, the young, the drunk,
all became part of the same movement.
I looked out but could see no conductor.
We drank the bottle of wine that we picked
on a whim some days earlier. It had been
a long wait, though, only a week had passed.
We were lucky to have had two cheap
plastic cups in which to pour the drink.
Restless, we moved from the bed, stood,
sat and wondered what to do with ourselves.
The wine spoke quietly to us one at a time,
relaying the same message.
Hands moved and found warmth.
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