To An Angel

The first time we meet
in New York City
it will be snowing.
No one will stop
to take a picture
of us as we stand
inches apart and shake
hands on a busy street
corner. Taxicabs
will continue to pass,
splattering dirty slush
onto our wool coats.
We will walk
in silence to a cafe
where we'll sit
for hours sipping
espresso, fingering sugar
packets. The smoke
from your cigarette
will rise and hover
around your head
like mist in a grave-
yard covering
a tombstone at dawn,
the epitaph barely readable.
Just after midnight
you will lean forward,
your face-pale
and thin-emerges
from the haze, eyes
dark as skulls',
and slowly, unnoticed,
we will kiss.

by Jeffery Conway

Comments (2)

Another good one. The mood is what makes this's all atmosphere and detail...the way I like it. Nice writing!
This is a great poem, Jeffery. Brilliant stuff. Regards, Seán