at eighteen, visiting
for the first time,

summer midweek
getaway with first love,

we walked by a Tibetan
restaurant late afternoon

while an unseen trumpet player —
maybe on a low roof, perhaps

in a window one floor up —
swung a perfect version of

“Rubber Ducky,” and we started 
singing along as we 

walked and swung our linked hands
back and forth, as we almost

skipped, as we 
sped through perfect light

toward our hotel room and 
perfect night.