Maestro, it was nearly four o’clock.
The puffins had flown behind the bank,
left me craning over the frayed piles
of the pier to glimpse a green bottle
knocking against the East River Ferry.
You see, I was still waiting, even then,
for your reply—motionless as a kiss,
hunched in my overcoat, fog blooming
from lungs, each breath, exhalation.
A woman leaning against the rail
drew a tissue to her eyes, streaked
with shadow, tears, artfully disheveled,
and the wind pitched heavy, lush,
against her frozen, outstretched palms.