She's turning away, about to step
out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles
before walking through the grand
doorway to cross 42^nd Street
to glance up at The Glory of Commerce
as she hails a yellow taxicab
when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.
Did he say something to himself,
something he swore he'd never think
again? Or, was she now limestone
like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,
her breasts insinuating the same
domed wisdom? Maybe his mind

was already heading home to Hoboken—
his body facing hers—his unsure feet
rushing to make a connection
with Sinatra's ghost
amongst a trainload of love cries
from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar's Palace.
Hugged there under the curved grandeur,
she says, I love you, too, Johnny.