She perches on the rail,
kicking her feet out over the water.
Smiling, she says
‘Sing to me a sad song.’
So I croon her a tune of Count Basie’s-
‘Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining thru the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.’
And in a fit of giggles, she almost lands in the river-
Steadying herself, she whispers
‘Look the buildings are sleeping.’
Standing quietly, arms folded and eyes shut tight,
they lean against each other for support
like old horses in a stable.
‘But the river never sleeps.’
‘No, she doesn’t – she holds each bank in her strong embrace,
and sings her own songs to the sleeping city.’
‘Now, its your turn to sing.’
“Moon river, wider than a mile…’
I perch on the railing, precariously between
‘I’m crossing her in style one day’
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