B.Z. Niditch- A Poem

SATURDAY NIGHT

How we met in the Big Apple
on city streets passing us
with intersecting signals
in a once red light district
our parents called it,
we are like dancers
of the hustle in the 70's
now forgotten,
you take a ride down town
on my idle motorcycle
when you abruptly cut out
with every nightfall excuse
of always being late,
now we're moving sidewise
when shadows are shortest
from the hard moonlight
over us by Central Park
blinded by new construction
in a rush of city traffic
prepared against us
outside the all night club
that has legendary jazz
with a run for my life
along nocturnal tinted bars
and gig soundings,
suddenly snow flakes
appear on my pea jacket
knowing the raw reality
of another dead cold storm
will not change my fate
in tempests of traffic
even on weary alleyways,
yet you went with me
even as I told you
I'm still pledged to a chip
on my dark shoulder
always wishing to recapture
back my energy
from bygone strangers
even those who heated up
the poisoned atmosphere
in boiling altercations, affairs
accidents, rumors, encounters
on this familiar road
which separates me
from my own blame games,
you were always there,
ex or not.