A Close Call

Without a word, the city speaks to me. Outside I hear a coin constantly being turned on its head. Not one mouth mouths tails or the other. The dime drops, dumb and unvalued. On the opposite side of the street, a man polishes the rail. Going up, he is on the third step with his back facing this I. Twice each season, he comes placing a coat over fingerprints so past presences linger no longer. Though they aren’t here, those touching people feel obscure now, dense even. Pausing, they look down and inward, unable to decide whether they are wanted back.

Inside it is a stranger world that others never catch. Doing things, we think no one can see or tell. But if they did, should we mind? would I say sorry? sorry you were looking. My feet seek warmth in mittens. Tucked beneath opposing thighs, I resemble a ribbon as I write this on some Wednesday, in light of afternoon, too quotidian to be remembered but simple enough to idealize now. 

I never get very far before the sky appears destroyed. It’s the day’s final hour, so I stand on the balcony, watching time be taken and darkness diffused. My age stares me dead on. I’d rather turn, taking up interest elsewhere, and avoid nature to say something but it is weird when no one is around pretending to listen. 

The evening is later and I worry you will not have come. Not even close. It’s sad, this singularity, you cause me to claim. Achieving fewer experiences, which in class I am taught isn’t where intellect fosters. I am unsure which I’d rather more of—the body or the mind. My hands take up you if there, or books when I’m here, speechless and thinking it’s not me who is being seen.