Passeggiata Poem by Matthew Christopher

Walking home, I saw through a basement window.

It was
like dark

Clusters of cellar spiders, the orchard
in the courtyard of the cold wet floor.

I couldn't go anywhere else,
even though it was raining
that night
and you were waiting.

It's not like you're not used to it by now.

I remember going home
to when we first met
and I asked you:

'What does it mean? '

and you told me,
in your Scottish accent,

'It doesn't mean anything'.