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We reached for the same Bukowski book, then compared favorites for a while among the stacks. I chickened out before asking if you’d ever want to get coffee and talk more poetry. If you read this, let’s try again?

You bumped into me near the kombucha stand, and my tea went flying. You apologized profusely, bought me a new one, and told me, “It was your favorite, right?” I was too flustered to say yes—or get your number.

You wore yellow boots and offered me half your umbrella as we waited for the Q train at Union Square. We laughed about how the city smells like wet pretzels in the rain. The doors separated us—wish I’d asked your name.