Music Hall will rise each evening,
deserving of its view
from our third floor perch.
Chairs once folded up and in
will now expand,
and beg us to stay.
We will sit side by side
but will not
share the same view,
nor would we want to.
For you will see, rising high,
the pinnacle of the front gable.
The intricate rose window
will remind you
of a church you once knew,
and the faith of your foundation.
I will see light, sunshine
reflecting in the window
bouncing back over
centuries of people
who built Washington Park.
I will see city, all dirt and gleam.
The Pecorino will sting the tongue,
the asparagus will snap in half.
Both will rest dreamily between us,
as if food is the only thing
on which we could ever disagree.

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