Somewhere

I am in the city of asphalt and well-placed advertising. He is just a friend of a friend, a small moment on a busy street.

He looks like the one who sold me away for a wonder, a want, and idle theory. We write the small print later, score the margins and realize we're going to have to lay down later tonight. Somewhere.

On the curb, an old woman shuffles by, holding the secret of a shuffle. Somewhere the sound of curtain rings on a rod. She holds her breath now when she wants to remember something. The details will save you when the wall of water comes.

It's his neck. The sort of length that seems already accomplished, pulse and warm. Not like me, with my fingers only good for unbuttoning things.