Angled from behind his left forefinger
the title of his book piqued her interest
as they rode the elevator to the tenth floor.
And so their arm-in-arm-
can't-get-enough-of-you-inseparability began.
One year later almost to the day
he would emerge from a voting booth abuzz,
get into his late model subcompact and drive
until he had crossed the straight party line.
She would take to her flower bed
the following day, trowel in hand, cell phone in crook,
and detail his latest fugue for her sister,
the librarian from a distant college town
who from the outset had misgivings about
that buttondown guy with the rather dull ties
whom she had dubbed Elevator Man.

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