She left me in style. Absconded in the night.
Hopped into a gondola—I mean the kind
hot-air balloons have (but this was in Venice)—
flourished a knife and cut the mooring ropes.
She touched her Gauloise to the pilot light
and bailed her dress out, barely rising in time.
I ran up panting, shouting: “Lunch tomorrow?”
She blew a kiss. “You’ve got to be realistic.”
I watched her float away, nude over the roofs,
and felt the city sink another inch.