She took her photo from the end of the pier
somewhere north of
where I was
when the shuttle
came,
riding the back of a
commercial airliner
on its way to its final resting place on
the Intrepid across the river on the Manhattan side,
a crisp shot of a
competent photographer,
part of an unspoken
competition we waged,
looking to get the
most hits on the company website
for images or stories, as if we needed to outdo each other
now that our romance was over,
she winning most of
the time,
and would have done so this time
had I not looked up from where i stood
and seen the shuttle over the Turnpike
where it looked as if it rode with the truck traffic
rather than in space,
a lucky shot that proves the myth
of those who are
unlucky in love
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