Get on the bus—then get off.
Plan aborted, a walk
in a circle is
one answer. No one else picks
through racks in a dress
boutique to break
her stride. Six degrees
not of separation, but of burn
then numbness
if she waits
for another one too long.
fucker. The man who snores
in a library coffee bar,
or the man I can only hear
through home stereo speakers—only see
on screens—all strangers
who grapple with their own
mortality. I have mine. Not certain
where the intersection lies. Six degrees
or less—I never had the patience
to measure that distance. Why talk
to your brother’s roommate, when I could be
kissing you full on tonight?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 