The gap in the trees

Some nights, when the air was warm and calm,
we’d set up chairs, angled to the gap in the trees,
peeking at the bay, the moon, the port, the city,
from the balcony of our Jack London Square apartment;
two transplant wanderers, far from friends, family,
and home;
gambling on the good nature of strangers,
too proud of our independence to consider
we might need each other.
You, packing some exotic tobacco
into an ornate, wooden pipe.
Me, making a mess, cutting the shoulder off a BevMo cigar.
We toasted with scotch, spoke slowly, traded wisdoms,
subdued the moment, like blowing smoke into bee hives,
and wondered who we’d marry.

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