What I’m going to miss
were those graceful exits
from the back seat of an Uber
wearing one of those bandage dresses
that rose high and tight along her thighs,
the air that went limp as a sigh
once she decanted and entered
the pulse of a neighborhood,
its movement abruptly
still as an oil painting
as strangers stopped their breaths
long enough to savor her arrival,
reorientate their coordinates,
while she walked along nonplussed by her ability
to alter the magnetic field
of an entire half city block.
What I am not going to miss
is having all my poems
circle back to her as their subject,
echoes from an extinct world
ghostly residues of a vanished respondent,
the ease with which beautiful women
move on without us.