-

Blue jeans, white sneakers,

green socks and a hat

walked by me

with a dreamfully light walk

with Bill Evans tempo.

Was it Debby? 

Steps flirted with the pavement.

And the pavement tried to grab them

with its strong and muscly arms.

But steps 

(frantic with evening cortado

and playful with Spanish sun)

slipped away and disappeared

among well-pressed trousers, 

cognac shoes,

charcoal socks 

and Doberman-like coats.

I looked by the stairs.

I looked at the subway platform.

And the one across the rails. 

I searched the trains.

But you had gone.

And I only wanted to know your name. 

Not because I’m restless.

Not because I hope we’ll meet again. 

But because I’d hate this poem 

to stay nameless.