A broken stoplight in pouring slant
streets, NYC on tilt, our wet folded
umbrellas kicked under the front
seats of the cab.
I said, “I have cliches at my
apartment waiting.” He smiled then,
new teeth white. I wanted to tell him
I didn’t mind our getting older.
But instead, we listened to rain on
the roof, watched the streetlights blur
like years apart, nervous about our
“first night” ahead.
He paid the driver, tipped the doorman
as our umbrellas were whisked uptown
to become the first anecdote we always
told at cocktail parties about a second
chance at love that took.