You and Me, Grand Central Lobby
It's the way the structure squats
across Park Avenue, stone grey.
Going uptown you notice only the breadth
of it, the road splitting into two
to afford the dome and its wings.
Statues floating on the facade. Muscular.
Inside the great vault I had kissed close
to the East stairway after looking up
at stars on the ceiling while she wept quietly
on my chest, our destinations calling.
All about conversations trapped by polished granite
with the clickiticlack of the schedule board.
Time passing with the names of places,
the track, the line that always moves.
There is little to say where nothing is still
long enough to always stay.
The gilded eye with four faces for the four winds
underneath the celestial map, green, vital,
ambling on the South ramp into the Whispering Gallery
by myself to wait, for her, my heartbeat
in a corner where it might carry through
bedrock, a tremor that cannot be disguised,
that she may hurry there to the castle of stone
where no one lives but every one comes for a while.