New York City, 1968 When last we met we sat on a stone bench in Central Park. Frost had put paid to summer and the big trees shivered in the tepid sun. We fed a squirrel the remains of your lunch. You said the draftees had left from Grand Central Station that morning-- your fallen face the color of the gunmetal sky. That winter the water main broke on the avenue that ran along the park. For months, we had to take the long way home. II When last we met we were in an apartment in the East Village-- above the shop that advertised “Fresh Produce.” You said the Weathermen had blown out all the windows. We sat on the floor in the hellish heat and the stench of overripe melon. A cloud of fruit flies thickened the air. You said you no longer cared to brush them away-- your face the color of ripe honeydew your lips and eyes covered in black dots like a painting by Seurat. III When last we met we sat in a coffee shop on 96th street by the Y. It was an hour past curfew and we wondered how we would find a way home through the mobs and the frightened children posing as soldiers. Harlem was burning. You said your family had a dry-cleaning store there and that hopelessness was ingrained in the air and water. Your dad kept a German Shepherd as insurance on your livelihood, but someone had poisoned it with mock kindness and raw hamburger. As we left, they were pulling the iron grating over the windows. You went uptown I went down. IV When last we met we stood in a sodden graveyard perched on a rise in Queens, that overlooked the skyline of the city. The newly turned soil screamed everlasting life. You said your brother would have been twenty-two tomorrow were it not for the sniper’s bullet that hollowed his left eye and blew away the back of his head. I recited a meaningless prayer in a language I had never bothered to learn. We shared a cab back to town. I got out on Sixth street, on the seedy side of The Village. The steady drizzle left room for only a meager sunset. V. When last me met we stood at the bar in Sonny’s Place on Jay Street, half hidden in the shadow of the Myrtle Avenue El. Sawdust coated the old oak floor, the air heavy with smoke and sweat. Sirhan Sirhan had just shot Bobby Kennedy, his bloodied body shown again and again on the muted screen, as if in one last replay he might stand, shake his head, and smile. Our beer staled in a silence that might have gone on forever had you not turned and left, the door slamming shut behind you.