I would expect it to be memorable
I wish you were here beside me

We could watch the wasp carry the cicada,
Bigger than she is, and heavier
An inch above the grass the utmost of cellophane wings
To the scree of her burrow and rest a moment.
We will wait.

I have never been to that café that wants to be Irish
But I will go there with you, wade through
The hollow slaking women and river pirates
They are still here, though the Erie Canal was filled in long ago
Summer is suddenly gone, Winter slots into place silently
Like an elegant machine intercourse

You would move a little closer to me on the couch
“I just need to be a little warmer”;  who said that?

Down the street an old brick building
Makes dull alarm sounds, but not because of us.
The fire main froze, and split the six-inch cast iron pipe
A thick fan of smoking water envelopes the
Cobblestones and Mr. Pruitt’s 1957 Desoto

That car was old even in 1970, when you were briefly beside me
That season was Fall, I think, I remember leaves
You had a black velvet cape, embroidered in red and gold
You kept it beside you,
You could be warm and alone.

I never liked that car;  it was presumptuous.
The rocket fins never belched fire, never sliced
The air or the waves or the rings of Saturn.

I hate the promise of wonder and delight
Always disappointing
When it finally arrives, the dream is whisked from sight
Like a wasp with prey, down a hole
While we wait.