I eat a slice of Vinnie's pizza in McGolrick Park,
my hands freezing, sauce dripping, because I forgot my gloves;
they are thrown around her apartment on Morgan Ave
when we started making love in the stairwell
and barely made our way to her bed which sits under books I bought her
and a tapestry she got in Peru or Panama or Newport, Rhode Island.
She kicked me out, because she hates to love me,
and because we have a history of letting each other down;
so I got a snack and now I am watching the dogs
in the dog park part of the park,
knowing she will call again in a week, a year
or never again which wouldn't surprise me.
When I feel like a sunset creep, I make my way
to The Moonlight Mile where Myles is slinging whiskey drinks
and where he will let me DJ for a spell
over the yelling of the Saturday slaughter;
I play The Replacements for me, Pixies for Adam, Bowie for Eric,
LCD Soundsystem for Franco, and Sam Cooke for her.
I pull an Irish exit and leave without saying goodbye,
pulling the plug on the juke and hoping I die on my way to the Turkey's Nest,
where I hope to run into another somewhere her or the very least
get a big styrofoam beer to take with my on the rumbling L train
under the East River, back to the Union Square there
that I can see from the AirBnB in which I have been living alone for a lustrum.