Our beckoning cabby
snaked through preposterous traffic,
past the icy neon signs
and the greening fragrance of stacked Christmas pines,
to the Met
where I almost cried, nearly blind
from Van Gogh’s iris and his cypress,
Henri’s vase of asters, Degas dancers,
until I and other spent patrons roosted
like pigeons on a rare bench.
Outside the cafe windows,
beneath the twisted trees,
hooded minks walked their dogs in pairs,
West Highland White terriers
in candy quilted coats,
as we inhaled the blackness of our coffee
and gazed the sifting snow.
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