only we stopped

for the bird in the Boston Public Library

"that's the most poetic thing I've ever seen"

I whispered as he perched himself on the rusty sprial staircase

"he's probably trapped in here"

I continued as he swooped over the chains 

blocking off shelves upon shelves of books far above our heads

"but what a place to be trapped"

you whispered over my shoulder

you would say that too,

you're the kind of romantic who'd run with a girl
through great halls of anthologies upon anthologies
past all the markings of great civilizations

past smaller dusty fluorescent rooms with rows of marble busts

and a single old woman at a desk, side-eying us

and my cynical jokes about the empty Arts section

For a hot second

on a slow elevator

I relearn what it means to be a romantic

me all crude, you all spastic

and I am all trapped up in that moment

in the courtyard with you

and what a place to be trapped