In New York City
She stands on the corner, in her raincoat,
Its pattern reflects in the street light and glistens with raindrops.
Her hair is pushed behind her ears
And she tilts her head down toward the street a little.
There is a golden puddle in the mountains, the water in that puddle
Is fresh and pure
There is a puddle on the street turning brown
And it is kicked by feet moving along in the crowd.
She stood on that mountain, in green summer grass
And I remember how she smiled as the sun sat upon the clouds and filled the valley with gold.
The sun has set on the street now
And my little room above the bodega is emptied of light.
Organ music plays down the hall
Someone is crying in a room nearby.
As I look out the window, the rain falls heavier still
And that woman moves slightly. In the electric light of the street.
She looks up; the light catches her eyes
I see that it is a stranger.
That woman, who spent that summer on the mountain with me six months ago,
I see her in bars, on buses, in theatres all the time,
even though she is not
In New York City.