Unaccompanied

A woman can’t sleep.
She thinks of a man,
a motel bed,
his two-day beard rubbing
her nipples hard.
She opens a window.
The man next door cradles
his saxophone and begins
a solo. At the corner
the grocer locks an iron gate
below the Liquor sign.
Damp streets. “Mood Indigo”
drifting over parked cars.
The woman remembers snow,
tracks they followed to the river
freezing under their clothes.
Thinks of wearing his sweater, him
clapping his mittens together.
She lights a cigarette.
The smoke hangs in the air
the way his breath did
leaving him.