Don't Tell Me To Remember the Good Times

The clearest memory
I have of
Us
is of me:

standing on a corner
twelve blocks away
in stiletto healed boots
with a run in my left stocking
in a pretty strapless dress,
with a wine stain down the front
far too short to be appropriate
for December in New York

Shivering;
waiting for a taxi
at 2 AM,
the night your wife called to say
she caught the early flight

Home
from Chicago.