My love for you lives in the basement with some discarded
suits and an extra set of everyday dishes,
your dead father's topcoat (black, like his outlook),
a portable radio and a battery charger, rusting.
I don't get down there much anymore, to rummage
among the treasures, looking for something
forgotten, a snapshot, an image that could be of use,
that might help me see us, clearly: Late at night running in the New York rain,
carrying the latest Doors LP, an ounce of home grown;
Or early evening, waiting for the Eighth Street bus,
carrying ice cream cones and flowers,
tokens, and an overnight case;
Saturday afternoon, me on the steps of the 42nd Street Library,
crouched beneath Patience and Fortitude, hugging textbooks,
cigarettes, and a half-finished term paper, waiting
for you to appear in the crowd, toting cameras and groceries.
Then this morning I dreamed the solid presence
of your hand on the small of my back, and awoke
to find you there, your hand's warm impression
real, as I asked you in my heart
to take me back to where I can breathe again
inside this dusty love, reopen
this burnished box of keys.
