The Last Time I Saw Kat

Her black beret spun down the street

Photo by Donald Allen on Unsplash

The last time I saw Kat,
she hid her eyes
behind Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses
she couldn’t afford,
made me shiver
with a kiss on the cheek.

Her black beret spun down the street
away from me in the snow.
She left a permafrost of silence
behind her, that froze
even on the weekend we splurged
in the Catskills —
sparks snapping against a screen
across a stone fireplace,
body heat underneath
a brown, wool blanket,
shots of Glenlivet Scotch single malt
roaring with an elegant flame
through our veins.

Her Chelsea boots clipped
past a wooden newsstand,
past Bel Ami Café
and its pinecone wreath
hung on the door,
past the twilight memory
of Kat’s warm breath and smile,
giddy on expresso, the hookah
and patisserie.