Two Chairs in the Courtyard

(a single guitar, evening settling in)
Two chairs in the courtyard,
turned a little toward each other —
whoever set them down like that
did it forty years ago.

Every evening after seven
he carries out her chair,
sets it where the wall stays warm
and waves her to the air.
She complains about her knees;
then the radio finds their old song,
and the years fall off their faces.

Somebody should sing the staying —
so tonight, this song is theirs.

Two chairs in the courtyard,
one shadow when they lean.
Forty years of evenings —
and he still calls her the bride.

There was a year the shop went under,
a winter when she couldn't stand.
He learned her mother's soup by memory
and fed her with a steady hand.
Some loves are fireworks and thunder —
theirs is coals that hold till dawn.

Two chairs in the courtyard,
one shadow when they lean.
Forty years of evenings —
and he still calls her the bride.

(oud takes the old song from the radio, guitar answers, sparse and warm)

Someone asked him for the secret.
He nodded at her chair:
"Choose her over being right,
every morning, everywhere.
And never fix that wobble" —
he rocked it on the tiles, and she laughed.

(a warm female hum joins the answer)
Two chairs in the courtyard,
one shadow when they lean.
Forty years of evenings —
and he still calls her the bride.

Two chairs in the courtyard,
one shadow when they lean.
When the stars take up their places,
two chairs in the courtyard hold the night.