And as the sleek blue rocket descended upon,
and as the geese and ducks emptied the pond,
and as the Empire City went distraught in its pleas,
something brought you to me.
New York under attack. The carousel in Central Park,
where we spent those nights, those tempting larks,
swirling in the fountains, testing dark. Restless hearts.
Now. Under the empty arch. Pigeon abandonment issues.
A few vandals, spraying their names as one last canvas is scribbled.
Police on alert. Walking the blocks amid the calm of the shock.
No one with nowhere to go in no time till the bomb hits its spot.
But us. You chase me to the edge of the creek,
sinking your toes in one at a time in a sensuous tease,
and, with enviable ease, you flip your hair back, exposing the skies,
and you grin. A wide grin. One that extends to the glow of your eyes.
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