Saturday night Safeway run

“Going out” is a broad expression,

and a girl’s gotta eat, gotta

have milk to drink. Maybe your grandmother

suffered from osteoporosis. Maybe

that’s her bracelet. Your gaze

floats from the window, superimposed

on the evening’s glittering

currents (motor vehicle collisions:

number one cause of accidental death):

you don’t look like you could know

the meaning of shrinking skirts,

eyes made ‘smoky’—yours insubstantial,

rippling in glass like some nocturnal

fume, palpable, even from the sidewalk.

Looking back at those 24/7

automatic doors, bright and completely

legible. No one can see you

sneaking glances at the revellers’

reflections, searching for someone you might know, finding

only me, my hands weighed down

with shopping bags and an old-fashioned

talisman on my wrist.