After living on 5th Avenue,
Everywhere else is a dump.
Early winter mornings,
The air on the avenue
Is cement cold, biting the nose.
One feels alive,
The slumber gods forced
To vacate the mind.
Across the street,
Behind a cut stone wall,
Central Park refuses to yield.
The richness is overwhelming.
I’d give up all the gold
To still be living there,
But she, so slender, so
skinny
With her shiny black hair
And ivory combs,
Released me.
I left loaded
With just a few regrets,
And a year’s worth of tasteful tokens
Stuffed into boxes that once held
Crystal wine goblets and
Tiffany lamps.
As January’s shadows grew longer
And the street air refused to warm,
The gods must have whispered in her ear,
Lost cause. She finally
gave up.
She couldn’t tame the wild man
From a different street.
No good behavior rewards,
Custom dinner jackets, gold cufflinks,
Had made a difference with me.
Maybe I’d been her project.
It took her nearly a year to realize,
She had been mine.
