On the tip of my tongue


When Sunday morning starts at 4
and coming Spring has roused the tourists,
beatniks, and leftover church folks--
livening their steps--
I'm floating down the sidewalk
above them all, a lovely rock star
on my arm, and wearing last night's
clothes feels perfect.

As we cross the street
a tangled lock of hair dances
in the breeze, brushing the soft skin
of her neck. Resisting
the quiet urge to stop right there--
amidst the traffic--and kiss her
up and down
makes my vision shimmer.