Hindsight
by Nancy Willard
The two of us running up Fifth Avenue,
Michael, a long leap of a lad
in his black church clothes
and his brother�s brogues,
and his hair flying,
and me with my brimmed hat hooping
down the steps of St. Pat�s
till it�s cocked on the wind�s head,
bent on blowing me clean
out of my senses.
Oh, why did I let that boy go?
God himself loved the sight of us.
I would be the blue light in his eye,
the left one, the far-seeing one,
the one he�s rubbing now, maybe.