In this pre-war lobby, I wait for my friend to drift
down from the floors above. Friday night pulls us toward
the Multi-Plex Cinema.
The darkened mirror lets me check my windblown hair.
At the glass’s edge, a warning flickers–
movement where there should be stillness.
Something surfaces- bare legs, bare feet, draped and distant.
A Greek chorus player, lost in the maze of Manhattan.
Fear sparkles through me. Does the figure breathe?
Am I slipping into some strange episode?
A smaller shadow peeks around a folding screen,
child’s hand curled at its corner.
No sound. The silence swells and settles.
Angels, I decide. Not muggers.
When I glance back, the space stands empty.
Only the wheeze of the ancient elevator,
the familiar footfall of my friend descending.
