Shape of an Egg

I started wearing bell-bottoms,
So Lucy did too.

They keep us rooted to the earth,
you see, it's so windy these days.
The park tears itself to shreds in autumn.
You find bits of it around Manhattan
Caught in your hair,
Or stuck to your shoes.

The wind took my hat and
blew Charlie to Connecticut;
but we talk on the phone.

He says that over there, things
go the way they were intended.
People walk in parallel, turn corners at right angles;
and the weather is still, so still! There isn't the hint
Of a breeze in the air
to push great curves in your trajectory.

We are balanced, like eggs
upon a table top
Lucy and I; we both were free
We let them stroke our
Fragility

(But we'll be here in winter still
With bottom-heavy souls, we will.)