February I

What is this thing that must be won by experience?

It has me walking on sidewalks next to myself, both

selves watching women and men coming toward us,

the fruit vendors and lovers—

I wonder about the husband and wife, she collects

money and bags the fruit, he loads and unloads, and they always

seem cold, her face chapped by wind, he endlessly unpacking

and smiling. I have never seen them move toward

each other, no looks, as if onions were exchanges,

the long carrots, conversations.

I consider the drive home, them up front, their cargo

following like a house behind them. Is this when she leans

into him, rests her gloved hand on his seat? When he finally

remarks about the customer who (he knew) reminded her

of herself nineteen; when they listen to the news,

each glad for the company glad for the sureness

of the other body in the later night’s unloading.