I thought I knew you
from another room,
but you said your name was Gaby
and I only knew one of you,
(and I didn’t want to know Gabby again).
So I crumpled up “b” into a box,
pushed it to the back of my closet,
burned the closet,
and looked up, at you.
You are bright, flowing, happy.
You make New York trees laugh in winter,
the ones with no lights on 27th street,
swaying on sidewalks.
The voice, the energy, the knowing.
Who knows why.
Your voice draws me in:
low and light and dark in one moment,
calm and cool, you collect me up,
make some joke about not knowing street signs
so I laugh,
I walk west,
explain what west means in a city on the East coast,
far from home.
I’m wearing the hat that made you laugh
and call me cute, and I smile,
because I know I’ll see you again soon–
new room, new puzzle, one less “b.”
December 5, 2018