The nice thing about loving a city and not a man
is that the city never wonders,

"Is this my future that I’ve found
or are we just messing around?"
"Will this relationship limit me?"
"What if she flees?"
"What if she stays?"
"Who is this person, anyway?"

A city is a generous lover,
a master of polygamy
who accepts love as practical,
intractable,
sweet to touch,
never too much,
a flash in the pan
for the soul of man,
quick to fall,
unpredictable,
and anything but trivial.

I’ve lost things to this city:
my girlhood (as a lover should),
my fear of clear affection,
rejection of hope for
the open door of certainty.

But dumbly, numbly,
with my future for a cover,
I leave a perfect lover.

I promise to come back
and love again
unhindered with plans,
which I might do and do well,
but maybe this is a final farewell.
I am too smitten to admit that
either could be true.

But the worst thing about loving a city and not a man
is that the city never wonders.
—M. Christine Benner, Summit, New Jersey, suffered an emotional parting with Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to attend graduate school in the English Literature department at Drew University.