December Poem

A fistful of coffee will get you
to the F train in time for the meltdown
of three babies and their exasperated dads.
Funny how the air of December feels
like the air of June under the East River
I think about you. A mile in any direction
leads me to such great heights once
I'm above ground I feel spiced and surly.
What makes a cab curl around a body
all bright yellow and curried, bundled
against the hyper crawl of these winter days.
I feel better in the sunlight even without
the terms of my endearment, which are written
on slices of paper in the drawer next
to your bed. I would like nothing better
than to unfurl a note the size of a banner
over Union Square, something you could
see on your way to work, a red word on blue vinyl
carried by my breath to your delighted ear.