Jack met Jill
‘neath the tower they call Eiffel.
She smoked cigarettes
like only the French know how;
he dared and asked for a light.
Gendarmes stood their bored, bored watch
to his winning smile, her shades in the sun:
in the City of Light, the countdown begun.

From Tokyo to Cali, the Pacific slept
beneath the arch of a 707,
Jack and Jill as close to heaven
as the trench they call Marianas.

Three months into it, they worried no more;
in all but name, over and done.
“It’s all a blur in jet lag’s wake
and easy on airports not to hear.”
Just say it and let us go – and out it came.

“You ran out into the rain,
silence traced a hellish sound.
And so I learned the person you were:
you fall in love with places, not people.”