"Fishing in the City”

The square-jawed man kneels in Central Park (great love lives in New York alone).

A gold ring rolls in pastel blue knit fingers.

A gasp of the chill air.

Tears.

Steam.

Or that’s how the camera catches it. I’ll catch it too, if I wait long enough under this tree, because autumn cold cuts sharpest under sycamore trees planted in the sidewalk. The orange atmosphere cast by outside nightlights only refines the edge. And if I can wear a scarf or a button-down coat (felt suitably frayed), oh!—the romance of the city. Fishing for the perfect autumn scene.

Under this unfilmed sycamore I smell cigarettes and the passing trash truck. A shrill drunkard stabs the air. An ambulance howls on the next block. I wipe mucus glisten from my nose and stick ungloved hands into pockets, nary a gasp or a ring or a square jaw.

            I’m going inside.

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