The Feeling of Coming Down the Escalator

of a gourmet grocer in a neighborhood 
you used to live in, oranges approaching,
protein bars around the corner, where you left them. 
But from what deep well of emotion does your elation 
on the escalator source? You ate protein bars
because you were so, so poor. It’s not time 
travel; not being reminded of something 
you never forgot. Conveyance downward
on grinding teeth has something to do with it. 
It’s not the joy of seeing a past friend with 
benefits holding a partner’s hand in Cabo.
It’s not the same as viewing portraits installed 
permanently at the National Portrait Gallery. 
Your automatic reentry from above following 
omniscient remove, certainly. I searched food 
aisles for a pair of black gloves but couldn’t find 
any store attendant. When I found one,
she told me that’s pretty much all we have, 
right there, where you were standing.
They’re phasing out the winter floor, already 
changing it to spring next week. Later I headed 
to a sample sale, an activity I had liked,
where they didn’t have anything for men. 
It was on 34th St. I had exited at 23rd.
That’s what my body knew to do after working 
in Chelsea galleries for a decade. Construction 
had struck down 6th Avenue travel. I got out 
thinking the intersection looked wrong, not me. 
When the final lesson is: I got there.
There isn’t what I wanted, what I wanted 
wasn’t there. Pero tú     No me has olvidado

Read more from Issue 22.2.