Night in July

By: Abigail Swanson

The fountain reflects light
onto the face of the library downtown.
We went there once, a long time ago.
It still glows.

Took note of the swept-out aisles
in the wavering light that shines through the windows.
So empty, so quiet.
A volume fallen down in Biographies.

Through the apartment window,
saw a side staircase where a fireman bums a cigarette
off a night nurse.
They talk, then kiss.

Writes her number on his hand,
which he types, in a panic, into a cracked phone
when she leaves
and then he walks.