A woman walks by with her boyfriend, it’s mid summer in the city,
like a sauna, only hotter and more sticky, she has on a white tank top
and a cotton skirt that’s so sheer I can see her black underpants.
This is the way Aimee dressed in her early twenties,
partly because of our poverty and partly because her body
was so young and fresh she couldn’t help but show it off-
Lithe arms, breasts the texture of soft-serve vanilla ice cream,
curved hips more like French pastry than flesh,
and the aria playing in my head, “Nessun Dorma”,
her voice singing duet in those sultry days.
We would go to the campus cinema for air conditioning, and
The Moliere Comedies and La Dolce Vita,
her skin brown from taking my convertible to the beach,
we would put the fan in the window at night and read classic novels till four or five.
One morning we woke up on the porch to a cardinal screeching,
the brown female swooping down, our cat with the red male in her mouth,
when she freed the bird, he fell to the ground as if he were dead,
he was just in shock, and soon he skipped across the ground then flew away.
When I saw that girl’s black panties under her skirt
it brought back those days with such a painful ache.
I might as well be lost in the West Village, a little boy
making up stories about seeing the Virgin, and people lined up
believing that God
had appeared in an abandoned store front,
while old news papers and plastic bags blow across the street in the wind.