A feeling. A deception. A myth.
A story that never got told.
The narrator left to buy some smokes,

never returned. Nothing to end
when nothing begins.

Fifteen one night stands
spread out over four years
across two states, two cities,

five bedrooms, and one yard.
So many other you’s

to choose from. I cannot exhale
when Nick Drake sings
“which do you dance for.”

The ultimate you—
an infuriatingly charismatic city—

may no longer exist.
CBGB gone since 2006.
Cannon’s Pub, where I found myself

feeling for scar tissue
in your earlobe, no longer an option.

Nor a pitcher
of your famous homemade martinis
(never forget the olives).

The Punch Bowl 130 blocks north
along Broadway in the Bronx

still serves up cheap beer
and kisses stolen across wooden tables
below tin ceiling tiles.

The #1 train makes elevated stops
mere steps aways.

The Strand’s 18 miles of books
still wait to wrap around willing minds
226 blocks south. Once upon a time,

there was an urgent call
to let two bodies collide

one last time. The canary yellow
garbage train howls its way through
the station in the wee hours.

The aroma of almost
wiped clean, an empty bottle rolls

off the edge
of the platform
onto the third rail.