Maestro, it was nearly four o’clock.

The puffins had flown behind the bank,

left me craning over the frayed piles

of the pier to glimpse a green bottle

knocking against the East River Ferry.

You see, I was still waiting, even then,

for your reply—motionless as a kiss,

hunched in my overcoat, fog blooming

from lungs, each breath, exhalation.

A woman leaning against the rail

drew a tissue to her eyes, streaked

with shadow, tears, artfully disheveled,

and the wind pitched heavy, lush,

against her frozen, outstretched palms.