For An Old Flame

Do you recall how I would buy champagne with subway tokens at the Benson store, then lick it all up from your northern breast? You still wore boots from Bialystok and I would hold your bag in sun and rain. Do you recall your mattress on the floor, how we would suck and f uck and never rest, explore Manhattan, and then talk our way down Clinton street in funny rags? It was four in the afternoon, my pocket full of dreams you'd never tread on, love. I'd go back home, no longer vagrant, listen to Cohen, look through plastic bags, makeshift curtains, out at sunlight, locket of your hair in my eyes, your smell above my grateful lips still warm and fragrant.