When all the women, with a parting moan,
have vanished into ether, light and thin,
I’ll ride the subway, sitting there alone,
or lounge like some reclining king within
a folded coat tucked gently at my spine,
patiently reading some old classic tale
of how she loved him—deeply, truly—fine,
how she endured the torment, cruel and frail,
scorned by all friends, condemned by whispers sly,
and how her mother, who had known love’s weight,
had disapproved her… How beneath the sky,
their kisses lingered, sealed by cruel fate—
there - in the garden - by the sacred oak,
where wind could not intrude, where shadows spoke.

The bushes rustle. Distant barks resound.
The garden’s thick with eyes prying to see
my love. It's time to leave this hallowed ground,
give up my seat by keeping it with me.