stiff like superglue,
he asks to turn the music off
in service of good talk, circling the topic

at a brisk walk
me loping to keep up
and searching in vain for a second to speak up

I tell him about secret societies,
he tells me his name
I show him my vigil candles,
he folds his thumb over mine
like an origami crane

and sometimes he wants to see me
but sometimes I stay away
just to sit at bowers park in the rain
just to count the cars on the train