The same streets I walked to meet him
I walk to meet a friend.

A week ago she was told
her prized pup from the litter
had died. But it didn’t
die, another dog did.
Her dog had always remained alive.
The dead dog was
another.

These streets were not
the same if I wasn’t
walking to meet him.

A woman wrote to say
she had seen me in
an elevator with him
all of us going down.
The description fit, but
the dates did not. I had
not been there, the girl
with long hair was
another.

Maybe she had
never been me
and I remained
untouched?

The landmarks paved
over and disappeared. They
took on second lives, or
had none. Some—I never
find them. Others—the bar
where I got a necklace
signed Ruthless, where a
man dreamed of trailing
a leaf down my ribs.