when I said
the love of my life
is a city—The City.

When I reminded you
of an attraction
that can only strike

when you’re 17 and 19,
or 20 and 22, or
even that’s too late.

Too late to remember
when to hold hands,
when to let go.

When I dared
to defy the backward constellation
on the Grand Central ceiling.

When I refused to telegraph
my good-bye through the lower concourse
whispering gallery.

And we never shared
martinis inside the Oyster Bar.