Last Bus

I’m on the last bus to you

The reverie of lonely New York steps

like an empty film camera ready to be pressed

and even the wind knows when to bite

with these scarlet amethyst nights

I’ll find you in any harbor of hope

My beautiful garden rose

Just as you are I’d confess,

as you wear your whiskey dress,

that I’m but a speck of winter night

A smoke on the sidewalk

aging sight

But you, bronze and Greek

and your satin speak

Manhattan will cry for you to stay

—Nested by street lamps at the sunset cafe

Just in time, a mighty woman walks my way