Fin
If against these bricks you stand unwanting
for your polished fingertips to tresspass mine
and chalk to pavement proves you've drawn the line
here amid the turf of our old haunting,
then linger would I not for all our world
(now a tattered sweater frayed and stained)
but bitter words will I spit unrefrained
like acid to your wounds unfurled.
And likely it is not I'll shed a tear.
Nor shall I dwell upon your faulty lines
but with precision shall I look for signs
of that cityscape and cigarette smoke
and tender response will it not evoke.
