Following the curve of the Great Lawn

 

I turn towards your public bed

 

The bench with the plaque from the Levy family, remembering loving parents

 

The wooden frame of the Delacorte Theater throwing a shadow blanket over you

 

Your college coat, graduated into frayed hope

 

I sit at your feet, holding two coffees

 

Heat escaping, pushed by this November morning’s wind

 

Mingling with your breath while you sleep

 

I touch your sneaker and call your name

 

Wait a few seconds as the coffee warms my thigh

 

You stir, eyes flutter

 

You see me, moment of almost pure stillness before you reach up your hand

 

I place a coffee cup inside your grasp, our fingers touch

 

I blink quickly, cough, ask how you are

 

You sit up, cup to lip

 

I can wait for an answer

 

Still seeing all the versions of you

 

Beneath the unshaved unwashed face

 

The “ifs “and “did-I-do-enoughs”

 

Hanging between us, a torn curtain never to rise

 

On a play neither could rewrite

 

Praying I am dead before it closes