We stand in the rain on the front porch, with cars splash-passing in the dark road. My neighbor, Anthony, drinking a hard cider, doesn’t blink when I ask if he’d be willing to share the poem he’s reading with all of you folks at home. Then we play music. He, the woman he loves, and I. He strums six strings, she runs fingers along the black and white keys, and I snap a beat with taps and slaps. Their voices, together, bounce through melodies, as they look at one another with a tenderness that pushes the rest of everything outside the room.
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