Since you hadn't come,
I stepped on the cracks and waited.
Nothing broke, so then I skipped the lines.
I loitered by the sundial.
I perched on the fountain's rim.
I stroked the great stone lions.
I sat on the stoop and scanned the passersby.
You never came. The crackling energy
this city's known for -- was it overrated?
Daylight was dwindling, and something sharp
had sliced tall oblong shapes out of the sky.
One color at the edge of these black boxes
lingered as I did, loth to disappear:
pale red. You didn't come. And I remembered
the woman on the shuttle, feral-faced,
red-jacketed, clutching a black guitar case
and swaying with the rattling of the train,
baring her pointed teeth in the dark window.
-- Rachel Hadas