I push the chair into place. She hides under the desk.
I want my glasses. I want my glasses and my robe. Coffee dripping into the pot.
We were both lost. Met at 111th. Followed you to Far Rockaway and farther. We had the same piercing. You, navy glasses that showed green when you tilted your head.
As soon as I saw you, I knew you were God. Our coincidences were spiritual. Spiritual incidents. Was that Kathleen across the tracks, or some false God?
Seven A.M. you told me you were from a Jewish school uptown. You knew I was from Michigan. You said so. Ann Arbor. No. Detroit? Detroit.
Such an ugly voice you carried and your bag like a neon robe.
It’s just the little things, you said. And you left. I find you in the little things. Coffee grounds and prescription lenses. Hiding under beds and desks.
Thinking of your copper eyes, I realize - God, I didn’t catch your name.
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