Henry Street Poem by Hal Caufield

I wait for her on Henry Street.
Its tree lined with old Brownstones
Running north towards Montague,
Where the sandstone turns to shops,
And people come and go
About their busy day.

I wait for her by Montague.
Oft times a forlorn, vagabond Cyrano,
Deep drags from a dampened cigarette.
Jamaican nannies push blue eyed babies.
And I smile patiently waiting,
Anticipating at Henry Street and Montegue.

Minutes turn to hours and then weeks into years.
And still I wait, anticipate the day that she is near.
Her long luscious legs carry her up Montague.
Their strides embedded in my heart.
Her face framed by curls of wet blond locks.
Their golden hue holding hope,
Despite the rain at Henry Street and Montegue.

I wait the kiss, I wait the touch.
To hold her firmly around that precious waist.
And then walk hand in hand among the throngs,
Letting them know that she has at long last
Come for me at Henry Street and Montague.