Upon Leaving Wyckoff

O’er

the crested hill hugged the favela. I couldn’t see the skyline. But I hear it’s lovely. You insisted. Grinding gears, flat tires. We ate at Bagel Emporium, at your suggestion. Soggy and yolky. Flat, pale cheese caked my fingers. I licked my lips. We discussed Vonnegut �" or was it Orwell? Both, more. Your voice commanded me, convinced me through a soothing calm. Dusk-grey eyes, cheekbones piercing the fogged moonlight. A single tower on the horizon. A monument to our own Babel. If the populations of one or many nations built a spire, would we join or watch? To monoliths or pillars of salt, I will follow you. Even in rebellion, you are my redeemer.