Just East of Manhattan

Janey and I sat
on the rocks near a dock
of blackened wood.

Across the water
Riker’s Island drained
the last of the 4:30 light.

My mouth held onto
a winter kiss. I licked
my lips.

My hands in my pocket.
Her pale skin breathing
beneath her pink ski jacket.

Her father was dead.
Mine was gone.
“Don’t treat me like some
little hoowah,” said Jane
with a scorn that made
her mouth like that of a mouse.

Some cold came off the water.
The sun was gone. Nothing
but a rusty slash growing dark
over the airport.

It was late.
We left through a hole
in the shadows.

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