Love in the Time of Ebola


New York gets smaller on a budget,
then cleaner, too,
held in the arms of a man who riddles on about time,
forgetfully.
Tunnels fill and tunnels whistle
with the passing of trains from Manhattan to Brooklyn,
carrying doctors, patients, lovers and lusters,
in expectant hesitation and anxious calculation,
to flower beds for the seeding.
Remembrances are scrawled,
hastily,
across faces and breasts
and the names of the long forgotten
no longer famous in the dark.
The eerie echo
of a hell above, heaven below hullabaloo
promising safety without numbers –
two against none –
that can save a soul,
tired, shaking and sweating.
Rising
out of the subterranean musk
into impenetrable air
can make a hand softer, a grip tighter,
a step quicker.
She’s come home,
long after midnight,
swollen with the blush of antiseptics and whispers,
warmed from within, cool to touch,
eyes red as sunrise.
And he’s come, too.

East Village Postcard