I remember him and his partner embracing
in the café. The café on the corner
of Sanchez Street and Seventeenth Street.

I think his name was Jeffrey. He looked
like a fashion model, mid-western, my definition
of midwestern, white, sandy-haired

and muscular. And his boyfriend, lover,
sitting in a booth, lithe and thin, white,
but much more feminine. They were friends

of my friend Peter, our straight friend who had
so many gay friends. The way they were
embracing, almost like we were in their

bedroom. Maybe I was wearing an Oxford
shirt, not a t-shirt. I was cold all the time.
Still am. There was a cause about them.

I felt it too. At my apartment building,
with the outdoor stairways and the elaborate
metal grill work along each balcony,

I walked up to my top floor flat, pausing
on the second landing. One man or
the other walked out of his apartment,

attached to an IV. They’d drag the poles
on little wheels, clunking down the stairs,
to get their mail. They weren’t friendly.

Seeing death, I smiled politely.

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Image: “Good Day, Without You” by Alex J. Tunney