I try to ignore those fathers

and mothers, who taught

that steel beams are better than

the soft tips of grass, foundations

cannot be made of soil and root,

that stability is all.

But three years in a city can take

the wildness out of you. Words

become concrete, thoughts like

cracked sidewalks. You always know

where you are going, when to walk,

when not to. This is a place

with appointments and time budgets,

where early morning is a time to get going

instead of talk. Last night

in a bar on Delancey Street

your breath collapsed on me.

I'll tell you, there is still that urge

to fight over quarters at the pool table,

stay till closing, walk home

on a less than brightly lit street.

I can't help noticing

how your sigh fell from me

onto water-stained wood that had long

forgotten the falling of leaves, the thrill

of a storm wind. My mind rises high

above the squareness of buildings,

the blackness of asphalt, tries

desperately to leave this vacancy

and take you with me.