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| Evening, 11 years later. |
In Central Park
the shrouded carousel
sat silent and motionless
because it was April,
and she was gone.
Outside Roosevelt,
a few blocks away,
the magnolias were in bloom.
Heavy petals fell on stones,
and she was gone.
The living filled the streets,
New Yorkers moving fast
as New Yorkers do.
Taxis blew their horns,
and she was gone.
So much more I had to learn,
great cities of the world
she led me through,
London, Paris, and New York,
and she was gone.
She loved to show me
what she knew,
take me where I'd
never been to watch
my revelations with a grin,
I'd follow her to find myself
in Thompson's Square
where Ginsberg read,
or standing at Blake's grave,
or breathing the breath of the Seine.
I hesitate, it's hard to write...
She'd hold my collar
late at night when I'd come home
from evening work, pulling me close
without a word, under the stars
above her bed, not letting go.
Big dark eyes,
holding tight,
not letting go.
—In memory of Kelly Jean O'Brien, 12/13/1970 - 4/28/2008.
