On a Night Like This

　　by Michael Teig

　　 When he couldn't sleep and his sight got going

　　 he noted the colors on the back of each painting；

　　 this one forest blue， that gunpowder，

　　 one blue to make the yellow tell，

　　 and one bluer than that.

　　 Certain nights only the rain will have

　　 its say， troubling the downspout.

　　 When morning came

　　 he chose a white shirt

　　 （they're all white） and followed the buttons down.

　　 At least he says there is Billie Holiday

　　 and the plants bring every green with them.

　　 When I make his breakfast， the bed，

　　 sweep the house out with a broom，

　　 he stands by the window longer than one should.

　　 I know he believes in progress

　　 even if it's the kind you can't see.

　　 When his sons grew tall and remote

　　 and moved to cities he'd barely heard of，

　　 he talked to them on Sundays.

　　 Though perhaps it's too late

　　 a silk rose in his lapel.

　　 When I came back some nights

　　 I saw him caught beneath a streetlamp

　　 talking with the girl he loved turning his palm over

　　 like a phrase he couldn't remember.

　　 I saw the night come down around them one hand turning

　　 and how she turned in the dark

　　 and smiled， blue scarf on her head，

　　 blue dog at her feet， blue attic between the stars.