I have to be careful about what I read,
because my mother-in-law and my father-in-law are here.
And they'll squeal on me.
This is an old love, so it's all right.
It predates Gail.
It's called Roman Termini.
It's the railroad station in Rome.
The woman she looks like was a woman
i had been crazily in love with 40 years ago
who hadn't loved me, but once was tempted enough, or kind
enough, or cruel enough to kiss me in front of her door
with a passion that has lasted all these years.
And at the end, someday, maybe is what she said.
Her umbrella yellow, her lipstick bright red, gleaming.
Not a year has been added to her years.
Too late, too late.
Now, you who believe you have outgrown
the juvenilia of your dreams, observe this man.
He stands by himself on a station platform
still waiting for his kiss, overwhelmed
by the small damages our histories do to us, how memory
retards us with its generous gifts,
then, when it most matters, takes them back.
I guarantee that what will devastate
you is what you have surpassed.