pink sunshine

I could live the rest of my life
with no more tears for you
if it meant Central Park was ours
and W. 32nd when
you sang “My Kind of Town”
at The Spot
my pink sunshines and your beers
no more than a memory now
that small hole in your jeans pocket
from your wallet
all the stupid things I remember
that keep me awake when it is cold and gray
and too foggy to drive

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