Asphalt

I followed the factory spills, the fumes

of Diesel cars banned from the city center

gathering  in carpool parking lots

like civil servants at a fire drill.

I followed the pushy cabs, and the bass notes

of a local cover band’s soundcheck

five men with a midlife crisis,

playing the same setlist

every week, for the last twenty years. 

What I found was a spring afternoon,

stretching on the asphalt like a lazy cat

warmth crawling under my winter clothes.

Yawning bar staff fighting the remains

of a wild Friday night with brown soap,

strong arms reaching for full beer barrels. 

Ice cubes clinking in a cocktail glass

clear as a wind chime on a summer’s day,

and the waiter who winked at me, saying

“it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

And it hit me

not for the first time, how this city

is an old friend with whom contact faded,

but who embraces me without hesitation

every time we meet, by accident.