It is a childhood rhyme;

Hiawatha didn’t bother too much
About Minihaha and his tender touch
So he took her to the silver stream
And he whispered things like she’d never seen…

Your Hiawatha passing you by on the 7.27,
I doubt she goes the wrong way.
She catches your eye in train-moment’s quick-glide,
Sees in your iris your so-called lover’s complaint
wonders what right do you have anyway –
the wronged party by that silver-stream was she,
the things she’d never seen beneath the musk-tree
you promised would be – you-she
as the viaduct’s smooth currents slid by slippery –
your arm about her back, your mouth about her kiss,
spoke a secret language of which she had never known the like,
a fair exchange – you both understood every word.
That was you on your black-wire bench –
No leather jacket that day,
she in her green-silk dress
recording in her black notebook that night;
I have fallen and you were he.