Michial Miller

We walked before our wives west

of the East village to find the car,

after a peaceful evening, attentive,

when I asked if you remembered how

keyed up you’d been the night you thought

all you worked so hard to pull off might be

at risk of falling apart, out of your control

and pacing the old town in the middle

of the night, struggling to make a decision

for what should be done, I bought a blue pack

of smokes that smelled like Mimi, slipping

the cig from its box and cellophane, flicking

a cheap lighter, the fleeting flame, my last,

that brought about in me an older memory,

adding ceremony to a moment and spoke

words to you, gently, that all would be fine

And you recalled the event with a smile, there

wearing the same one on my face—

our face, alike from the eyes to the crown—

and for the first time, we could laugh about it.