Gray silted clouds jotting across
the skies like scud missiles, WALK
DON”T WALK, the sign blinks.
A herd of blue-haired women carrying
Bloomingdale bags stand at the corner,
but I am the color of
asphalt dark and oily. “Can you tell
me how far the museum is?” A woman
rasps like dried seaweed. I don’t know,
I’m a tourist, I say, I don’t belong.
Drivers hurl curses at me as I run
across the street. A sign blinks,