You were the smokey-eyed Latina
in jeans and a tweed trench,
glasses provocatively placed on forehead
with a circular diamond on her left index finger.
I was the fucking idiot
on the fucking 6 train
who kept, like, looking at you
every fucking chance
his fucking drooling-ass eyes fucking got.
We made eye contact
a fuckton on our downtown ride
until you got off on twenty third
in an exit as graceful and gorgeous
as any I imagined
in the thousand scenarios I painted
in the infinite realities I described for myself
where I wasn’t the fucking blithering idiot
who could not
get the fucking nerve up
to fucking say hello to you.
You were looking back at me.
Maybe because I was sweating
because you were so fucking hot.
or maybe because I was inexplicably intriguing
to you, too.
I could have said something.
I should have said something.
Is there a universe, somewhere,
in all the realities
where you’d give me another chance
to lose your favor?
It would mean all the worlds to me.
you can expect me
on the 6 train
every fucking day
for the rest of my fucking life.