The Photographer

We sat in the narrow plaza filled

with metal tables by the construction site.

It was warm, around 5 pm, one of those

evenings after a long winter where

the city seemed to be anxiously flowering.

Several acquaintances rode by on bicycles.

There was a line outside the pharmacy

on Fulton where they yelled everyone’s

full name and then their medication.

Soon you would travel to another state

to take pictures of a famous dancer.

You think it’s about honesty, you said,

but it’s not, it’s about staging,

also light. Behind you, two floors up,

I could see into my room. The little vases

on the windowsill looked pathetic, girlish,

so carefully arranged.