After years of knowing you,
the news is still hitting me
and I’m falling
down a deep well
though walking with you
up Buchanan Street
under a cold, white winter moon…
The intimate, warm little restaurant
at the corner of Greenwich
turns us away.
It’s late on Friday night
–we’re now 0 for 2, in seeking out
a place to talk…
You say you have no sense
of direction
and make bad choices
& we both know it is more
than the streets of this city & its eateries
you are talking about
Again, I am astounded
how could this be
that you know this
about yourself, but can’t stop the machinery
that is taking you away from me…
My sense of the Tao, recently, has begun to develop–
I look up and notice
the motel sign on the corner
knowing a good choice when I see one…
but you don’t have this sense
except for your witchy
instinct for parking spaces
so I say nothing…
You are, undeniably, beautiful
a beautiful woman
who makes bad choices,
a walking tragedy for all concerned
beneath your darling
knitted
hat