She stared at the ceiling. You
watched her do it and you
remembered the way her face had looked when you
flew halfway across the country. You

had watched her stare out the pillbox windows; you
had noticed how the neighborhoods looked like spinal cords; you
had fallen asleep with her head on your shoulder. You

copied poems into red notebooks. (You
hate college-ruled.) And when you
awoke to the outside world you
found unremembered ink stains blotting your fingers black. You

always wanted to be a New Yorker. You
(in someone else's words) were a homegrown coward. You
pretended Boston's city lights were New York's. You
wrote yourself in third person. You.