To get there, you climb a steep hill, past the parking lot where the cars are neither new nor luxurious. Then, up some crumbling concrete steps, to the entrance of a plain brick building—and still two more flights inside,  to the Poetesses’ apartment. The hike is well worth the effort because from its generous living room window you can see the park, or at least its treetops.  

The limited view may be an advantage, because the rooftop of the next building screens the parkway, where my ghost bikes go blasting by – unbaffled Beemers, mostly, but also a Norton ass shaker, a leaky Harley flathead, and a one-lung BSA. Other phantoms that inhabit the neighborhood include exes and old girlfriends. Also,  several places where you once could score a lid.

Inside, it’s as though the Poetess has lived here since an ounce cost ten bucks. The thriving fern, the exhausted couch,  the dining room walls lined with unfinished pine bookshelves; the tabletop hidden by manuscripts. The gray cat sniffs in your direction and leaves the room. She apologizes for the mess, but all the clutter fits perfectly,  like in a poem about a passionate love gone by.