I knew it would be my last few days in the city,
But I wasn’t going to tell you that I was leaving.
We made our way toward the candled windows
Of Little Italy like a movie from the early 30s,
Grainy and aimless and your arm through mine.
Our throats were phonographs, notes of
Disinterest or cynicism hidden between the
Gentle crooning of hopes and dreams.
It was love.
Amid joyous pools of Italian families and
Red cobble, a sidewalk host lured us
Into the softly-lit velvet and golden trim.
We were strange and we were serious but
Our eyes made us welcome to the smiles there.
Stars were being blown out somewhere and
Dying anticipation suffused.
An aura of stillness
Fell around the table,
Along their glow’s trajectory.
Outside, we smoked,
The manhole smoked,
Behind the glass the wicks smoked
Between two licked fingers.
The bar lights
There was a shadow in the small
Of your back as you walked away.