What the city left me:
wet brick, the muddy tang of the Charles,
a suitcase never fully unpacked.

Elsewhere, a spring afternoon.
Someone sprawled on the grass, book held overhead,
pages gone pale in the sun.

Birkenstocks on pavement. Coffee going cold.
The small, private smile of a person entirely elsewhere.

Further in, the city gets loud —
but quieter places wait.
A staircase leading down to books.
A gallery door left just open enough.