Rehearsal: Christmas Eve

Ten degrees and dark afternoon,
and you go outside into the Jeep
to rehearse your song for the reunion.
All I can see is you huddled over
the car stereo, adjusting the volume,
pushing back the seat. All I guess
is that it must be "The Christmas
Song," something older than we are,
in a brassy timbre. I lean
to the kitchen window and tap
silently against the shouldering
clear of this night. When you
hit the lower registers, I swear
I feel the window vibrate,
the wind throwing its ice
upon the glass. When you come
in, I know better than to ask
how it went, but still when I kiss
you, I touch your face, run
my fingers soft over the pulsing
warmth of your throat, and you
catch me wanting, in that old,
male way, wanting to know, and
you say, "It’s a gift, you know.
That’s all. Something you wait for."

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