I'm listening to a friend unravelling threads of a spy trilogy he's lately read.
His son beside us is abstractedly
shining a chestnut from the People's Park on the sleeve of his pullover. My car
is waiting in the cold and dark
of a street that never gets the morning light. I'm listening to these ins and outs
of double-dealing and conspiracy
because the sun is shining on this corner, improbable as a cheerful chapter
opened at ran de-ill in the book of history.