ghosts (the Dancer, the Russian, the One that got away)

trying to write her was like Manhattan
busy, bothered,

jerking subway

starts on the A train local
as you cross that invisible line
and leave 116th street station.
saying goodbye to:

the Poet.

and

the Junkie.

and

the Drunkard.

headed uptown
to sweaty August nights,
181st and Fort Washington
with the Dominicans dancing
in the shadow of the George Washington
and the salsa drifting up from the streets
and everything i own in a duffel bag.

i was trying to write her like Manhattan,
but she's more like Paris—
lazy, jet-lagged mornings,
sleeping in with the shutters closed
and a strong dollar buying pan au chocolat and wine,
taking trains from the hills of Montmartre
to Le Select and Champs-Élysées.

chasing:

the Spaniard.

and

the Writer.

and

the shadow of the Guillotine.

but this isn't about

her,

the one i should write like Paris.

or her,

the one i wrote like Manhattan.

or her,

the one i loved in New York and lost in Meudon.