Their collective quiet is pulled taut, as two unknown lovers strain under the weight of some great sexual driven passion, right beneath my apartment window. They kiss in a maddened fulfillment as their invisible bond promises never to be broken. They look happily, savagely, into each other’s eyes, into what lies next. Under the streetlamp, lit with desire, as the river runs along the west side, and the sun sets on the east, quite the contradiction, as conflict now rises from the gold of his wedding band. He twists it, often and frantic, twirling it around his finger, as if not knowing what to do with it. He pulls it off, fastens it to a safety pin inside the fold of his briefcase, and in the darkness of the case the ring knows nothing. The ring sees not the forbidden embrace, the fruit of another, the tongues probing, forbidden fruit of the lover, as body parts, hug, touch and cling to one another. The pounding of his heart is for the lover, as the ring sits secure in complete epic darkness. The ring, never knows, and never tells. The love affair, it stands on the corner of 77th and Lexington, beneath the street lamp, covered in heat, blushing from fulfillment. The taste of yet, still another.