Barefoot girls sit cross-legged against the arch in Washington Square Park chatting on a crisp spring day when the entire world fits neatly into the pockets of their embroidered jeans Their hopes, still intact, like golden-crusted rhubarb pie cooling

Should they call me sentimental for riding by your old place to see the steps where you waited for me on long ago dates when I’d borrowed my dad’s Plymouth as he always had allowed? Should they call me