What I’m Going to MIss



What I’m going to miss


were those graceful exits                                       

                                                                               from the back seat of an Uber


wearing one of those bandage dresses

                                    that rose high and tight along her thighs,


the air that went limp as a sigh

                                                                               once she decanted and entered


the pulse of a neighborhood,

its movement abruptly                                          

                                                                               still as an oil painting



as strangers stopped their breaths

long enough to savor her arrival,

                                                                                reorientate their coordinates,


while she walked along nonplussed by her ability

to alter the magnetic field                      

                                                                                of an entire half city block.



What I am not going to miss


            is having all my poems

            circle back to her as their subject,


            echoes from an extinct world

            ghostly residues of a vanished respondent,


            the ease with which beautiful women

            move on without us.

What are you looking for?