We walk hand in hand round the grey reservoir, 

Or on rain-soaked cobblestone, slippery sidewalks, 

'Neath soggy, cold and golden trees

Note the patterns in the trodden on leaves

Dodging loud tourists who block our way

Staring lost at their phones, looking for the Met

This is our time, our city, 

Our space

My melancholy 

And me.