The Square

She twisted herself away in an unconscious attempt at dissonance
that colored his brow with worry; confusion.
The ancient awnings of the cathedral captured his periphery
and stole his interest from her disinterest.

The sky shook with sudden breath and he missed
the English pigeons escape through the afternoon.
He looked up and she was gone.

The street musician ahead of him rang a
consonant harmony and the smile he’d been
hoping for seduced the fading light of day
to slowly sink to twilight.

Children squeaked hunger to their parents and he listened.
The wind picked up as men tucked in their scarves, and he watched.
The cathedral laid its shadow across the brick and he thought
of last night’s rain and last night’s mud and last night’s beer and last night’s bed.

The guitarist ran his dancing hands up the neck of his instrument,
squeezing his strings and singing his ecstasy
through the hollow wood of his livelihood.
He climaxed with a jerk of his head and a finality of his hand
and left the square in an acoustic vibrato.
The backlit cathedral moved with the sun and engulfed the square in shadow.

He squinted in the night and quivered in the cold and warmed his hearth with coffee.
He had nothing to keep him here and nothing to carry him away,
which is the greatest gift of present.
The children cleared and the temperature sank with the British sun.

The church bell rang to mark the hour, though which one, he couldn’t say.
The coffee disappeared in his veins and cooled against his blood.
The silence warmed him and he stayed to soak the square.
He wouldn’t think of her again.