When the man who snapped "Don't tell me
to stay calm!" got off the subway train,
we glanced at his empty seat. No one rushed
to take it, his energy field lingered.
It was November and still warm enough
for the psychic on Seventeenth Street to read
palms outside her store, where she'd set up
a table, two chairs, and a sign: CLAIRVOYANT.
In the building next door, Luis and I once made out
in the narrow elevator all the way to the sixth floor.
He was writing a book about the Yanomami
in Brazil and liked to watch old gangster
and cowboy movies, where the armed
men died, but no one shed a drop of blood.