There was the quite perfect day
when we endeavored to pay
homage to the Atlantic City tycoon
and his gangster moll --
minus fedora-clad gravitas
and plus beach bar margaritas
we monopolized the taxi’s backseat
while the French driver prattled on.
When you remember it now,
it’s not for the buffet, or how
everyone wondered what I was
doing with you there at all --
it’s for the train journey down
from hushed city to shore town
and asphalt-grazed knees
from a bike the week before.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch
would be pleased to hear from you.