Peter and I ran away together

Rented a bare room in Hell’s Kitchen

Listened to bebop in doorways on 47th street.

He wrote poetry about me

I drew portraits of him.

We had no money because our families were angry

About our precipitous love

And cut us off

But we were happy because

We were bohemian outlaws

Sleeping close to one another on a dirty mattress on the floor.

You have to understand

That Peter was raised in a stately mansion on Long Island

And I grew up in an apartment on the Grand Concourse

With wall-to-wall carpets.

For us

Poverty was as good as a circus.