For Kate, on Her Birthday
The dull-drunk weeks of December—
night collapses around the building at four.
The fish dies, the creaking gray arm
of the oak finally snaps, and Anna, our
grandmother-neighbor, carts canned goods
from her Buick up the concrete stairs.
Plastic tarp on the swimming pool carpeted
in leaves and still the ice cream truck arrives
daily. Get to the point. The year is old,
love—keep me warm. With the world
outside our window, I’ll drink you
like a soup—our stories the bread and the salt.