We had terrible fights, with little
peace between the conflagrations.
When we finally split up, I tossed
my wedding band down a sewer grate
hoping I’d broken the circle
of never-ending pain. Recently,
after too many White Russians,
I told a friend what I’d done years ago.
“Damn,” he said, “You should have sold it
to a jewelry store in the Diamond District.”
“Nope,” I confessed. “Every time I went
to 47th Street, it was to spend money.
I would buy books on James Joyce
from the Gotham Book Mart.”