“He looks like Andy Warhol,” she said.
I turned around. “Who?”
“The guy with the black glasses, black t-shirt,
standing right there,” she replied, starry-eyed.
I tripled-checked the view.
I saw an aging punk wearing a black shirt and glasses and a couple of lovely ladies,
and exactly no Factory-looking folk.
“I guess I just don’t see it,” I said.
“That’s because you’re looking at the wrong guy,” she coldly responded.

“All right,” I answered.
Soon enough, the punk walked out,
and the lady pointed at him: “you look like Andy Warhol!”
He decidedly did not.
Maybe it was a private joke between them.

About ten minutes later,
the punk shuffled the lady inside,
seeming to guide her.
Perhaps she had sight issues
That would explain so much…