Like Each Morning by Luis García Montero

Now I know
these streets have made us lonesome
and our hearts
have the yellow pulse
of a trolley’s sluggish woods.
Over their old bodies
we took slow, uneven steps
with a levelness like trees.
It was lovely to arrive
each morning,
honor our meeting with
the ivy on the wall,
tired draperies of narrow houses
and dirty streets. Lovely
to cross some bridge,
linger just long enough
to see water quarreling at the river’s edge.
In its garden we sensed
the first winters, their hazy course
among the palms.
Almost no one went by,
there were only
forty red chairs
from closed bars and a perfect
loneliness.
For many years,
so many days gone by
one after the other,
our duty was a certain solitary stroll,
a date with a course we only altered
to trample the hours falling,
the dreams lacking,
puddles’ frozen surface,
to jump the hedges
or kiss our nails purple with cold.
And when we arrived at the door we’d buy
little cream or violet candies.
We’d finally enter to mingle
like every morning in life
with tired steps, cold tiles
of a world fashioned in Latin
and Roman numerals.
Now I know
in that deserted city
everyone felt sorrow,
a perfect solitude
overflowing with long coats and umbrellas.

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