Migraine knocking.
Cervix clawing.
Hormones howling.
Strangers keep glancing,
wondering if I’m famous or feral.
Could be anyone.
Selena back from the dead…
Edward Cullen…
They’ll never know.
Then a sound drifts down the block?—
some street musician bleeding into six strings,
a guitar riff cutting through traffic
and gut-punching me.
I freeze?—
mid-cramp, mid-step, mid-breath.
It’s slow, mournful,
“Dream On”stripped down to bone and smoke.
Aerosmith doesn’t show up in your life
unless you want it to.
I glance left.
It’s a guy in a wool coat.
Worn beanie. Fingerless gloves.
Amp strapped to a luggage cart.
I reach into my pocket for my phone
to text Andrew,
to say,you won’t believe what I just heard.
I wrap my fingers around the device,
then stop.
Aerosmith? On Fifth? At 9 a.m.?
Come on. Seems a little too…convenient.
