Residency

I didn't bother to look
through the piles of papers that were still there--
pictures, playbills, greeting cards, relics from the past;
everything that you held dear,
everything transparent.

I wonder if it was intentional.

I remember the first time I came over,
that was when you put it up,
my little laminated poem,
next to your MetroCard, and several other
memorabilia from the great city,
there I was.
I thought I had joined the club,
that I had claimed some sort of a residency
as your New York poet.

Maybe I took it for granted,
maybe I was too proud of my citizenship to realize
that even with the state ID in my wallet,
even with the phantom New York accent on my tongue,
I should have opened my lips
a little wider when you asked me to,
the first time we kissed.

But I was too obsessed
with the black and white of your hair,
the frosted asphalt of city streets I
remember thinking must be
so soft,
so unbelievably forgiving,
until I fell face first into it.

Suddenly, no longer a lullaby
are the city lights, the traffic lights,
the gunshots, and the subway trains
crossing over the Manhattan bridge--
I wish (you) were still above me.