This was the year you had
your quintessential Philadelphia night
with the lithe Palestinian painter:
A water ice on that steamy corner,
where the peoples of her life seemed to congregate;
some in the summery haze,
some in her delicately formed, thin lips
Vanilla in color, and perhaps in taste
although she won’t let you know for sure

But as your mind wanders,
first to her lips,
then through her austere black hair,
You are certain she tastes of something more substantial
richer in hue and less fleeting
perhaps chamomile,
or pepper

This was the night you sat
at the edge of the fountain in Rittenhouse,
and the locals and homeless alike
joined for a friendly game of four square
to brace themselves from the late summer chill
Sneaking its way through the city

And while you both talked
of phantom lovers, and cynical years ahead
Her hair loosed itself,
to fall just so across her deep, obsidian eyes
that in your peppery dreams,
You brushed it back into place