It rained in the City when I met you for coffee and
it rained as I caught my reflection
hungover
despair and depthless grey
merging seamlessly with the concrete clouds and sidewalks.

Then suddenly came color:
your face.
Suddenly warmth:
your voice.
Suddenly delicate:
your touch.

Momentary safety from the spray and the steam
and the sirens of the City
streets in endless agitation.

I don't remember what I drank
I don't remember what you ate.

I stood outside of an Asian restaurant waiting for you and
I don't remember why.

Later that night, you tried to kiss me
drunkenly in the alleyway next to a faceless Brooklyn bar
and I watched you walk away an innocent
amidst the cones and car doors
defeated again by my careless commentary.

To ride a sour candy tin
back home to Flatbush
and mercifully away from
me.