I arrive at Chase’s at 6:34pm and
straightaway we hang a photograph

on the wall (I have these skills I am
Woman) and then atop the redblue

plaid of the comforter that could only
be his we talk about prospects of office

chairs and a ten-year-old love interest
and a book title in all capitals. When I go

to the bathroom the walls the tub the tiny
toilet remind me of other Brooklyns I’ve

known and I want to ask Chase to pose
in the bathtub for me with a prop like

a Frisbee or an empty foam cup but
we have to go to dinner and that means

three layers for the arms and the boots
we’ve got. I don’t even buy sliced bread

anymore. I make tacos. The intonation
of this Timothy-middled man is so dear

to my heart & throat I’ll imitate it twice
at dinner and then again to myself

in Grand Central two hours later when
my socks have taken up residency at my

toes and it’s not the jokes about college
tours but the strict  announcements of delayed

arrivals that bribe my mind awake.