Columbus Ave

tiny yellow boots splashing in a puddle

reminded me of waffles and damp sweaters

and on my way to your place

I wondered

if your mother read to you often

and did she make you go to school

when you tricked yourself into feeling sick.

at one hundred and sixth street

I thought it was one hundred and ninth

and like a ghost at the foot of my bed

a dangerous question appeared

wide-eyed

though it quietly retreated

at the sight of a fruit cart in the rain.

after I made it to your apartment

and the power went out

and the clocks reset themselves

you described the trees bending outside

while I thought of greyhounds on paper leashes.