Chicago. January. Present time.
“The core of winter,” says our weatherman,
Whose forecast draws more eyes than local crime
Or something happening in Somewheristan.
A storefront theatre. A wind-chilled night.
We’re in a tiny lobby, parka-packed.
A call: “The house is open!” Polite,
We set out folding chairs from where they’re stacked.
Lights down. Lights up. Two actors: He and She.
Her voice. Then his. They whisper; we’re that near.
Who now recalls the winter? Nobody.
We’re anywhere. It’s anytime. For here,
Between that simple stage and every seat,
A kind of cold communion turns to heat.