It was pure romance
the two of them
strolling down the avenue
arms locked
the projects
facing each side of them
stark boxes where they
lived
the Caribbean exchanged for
the gray fearful streets

he worked like a demon
his car working day and night
on the big industrial roads that
poured through the granite
of the native soil a million
cars and trucks to feed the city

in the morning he returned
and fell into her on the
couch touching her soul with
his arms and his lips
and then he left her
pregnant and tired
back on the highway
back to the city

where he ranged
circling the island
rounding Wall Street
and through the boroughs
day and night
to the airports
and the hotels
and the streets full
of women that filled him

but he returned to her
always as first his
son and his daughter born
in the Bronx overlooking
the commuter trains
and the racing traffic
on the New England to
the fireplaces in the suburbs
and he worked like the devil
all week all through the year
to cover his medallion
that he wanted free and clear

but then one night
parked on the West Side
in the dark breezy drive
over the Hudson
he bought a ticket that
carried him over the horizon
and out of sight
to where his children will wonder
when they are older
if they can see his face
hidden, far away
on the other side of the river