This is the spot—the table
beside the escalator. Orange metal
railings mean nothing
to each stranger who steps aboard. She counts

the walkers—only one
so far. Stand
on the right, pass
on the left. She learned it

in the London Tube,
rediscovered it in the NYC Subway,
won’t let it go above
or below grade. It never made it

to this side of the Mississippi. Movement
along these banks depends—
on everything, even
that orange rail.

They Were Identical

She pitches pennies
on the floor in the back
of a New York taxi cab
with twins

she used to know. Thirty-five
years. Nap dreams mean

nothing unless she chooses
to shape them
into visions to augment
the afternoon light.

She’s not going to
google those boys—

learned her lesson.
She doesn’t want to kill
off any more of her past
sooner than it needs to expire.