His car, watermelon green boot static in front, lit up as treasure beneath a streetlamp globe.
Snow pinched windshield, fingers numb, gloves with pentagonal holes 'round the wrist.
Got out, cold hit me like the train squealing up at Canal Street near 2AM.
That's where you found out who I was.
I thought you were another twenty-something from Greenwich Village, discount hairband and a wrong shade of eye-shadow.
Eighteen months later, I can't even remember what colour your eyes are.
Knocked the door, a reckless mistake.
Heard a murmur, rowdy thump down stairs, a ****** of glasses (wine? Surprise.)
It had been a while.
You were expecting me.
Written: August 2014. Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and another that forms part of a 'city' sort of series I have going on at the moment, alongside the bigger beach/sea dream couple series. This piece could be stronger. Feedback always appreciated.