It was unintentionally unkind
of that girl I dated
for a year—years ago, how many? eighteen?—
to cleverly point out the water towers:
round, industrial things, steel scaffolding
with short cone tops, capping
every tall building in New York.
Two marriages and five kids, between us
and still the water towers remind me
of a perfect spring week with her
making art, making love, in her posh flat.
I’m older now, less attractive, beaten down,
“moth-worn,” Orwell would describe,
and we haven’t spoken in years.
How tragic that the happy past
seems so much further up and closer in
to the Heaven we imagined than today.
april 2023
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