The Photographer
We sat in the narrow plaza filled
with metal tables by the construction site.
It was warm, around 5 pm, one of those
evenings after a long winter where
the city seemed to be anxiously flowering.
Several acquaintances rode by on bicycles.
There was a line outside the pharmacy
on Fulton where they yelled everyone’s
full name and then their medication.
Soon you would travel to another state
to take pictures of a famous dancer.
You think it’s about honesty, you said,
but it’s not, it’s about staging,
also light. Behind you, two floors up,
I could see into my room. The little vases
on the windowsill looked pathetic, girlish,
so carefully arranged.
