What Was // Kim Addonizio

The streets fill with cabs and limos,
with the happy laughter of the very drunk;
the benches in Washington Square Park,
briefly occupied by lovers, have been reclaimed

by men who stretch out coughing under the Chronicle.
We're sitting on the cold slab
of a cathedral step, and to keep myself
from kissing you I stare at the cartoony

blue neon face of a moose, set over the eponymous
restaurant, and decide on self-pity
as the best solution to this knot
of complicated feelings. So much, my love,

for love; our years together recede,
taillights in the fog that's settled in. I breathe
your familiar smell - Tuscany Per Uomo,
Camel Lights, the sweet reek of alcohol - and keep

from looking at your face, knowing
I'm still a sucker for beauty. Nearby, a man decants
a few notes from his tenor sax, honking his way
through a tune meant to be melancholy. Soon

I'll drive home alone, weeping and raging,
the radio twisted high as I can stand it -
or else I'll lean toward you, and tell you
any lie I think will bring you back.

And if you're reading this, it's been years
since then, and everything's too late
the way it always is in songs like this,
the way it always is.