I’m not surprised that lovers fuse joints on subway rides: their elbows are magnetic.
And I’m not surprised at the shadow in orbit of my feet when they graze this city grid without you –
Because I’ve walked all around to bury our context like bones, and I’ve been walking since our lines diverged, in strides opposite yours and due north.
But I’m still surprised to see you when you see me and pretend not to.
If again we travelled underground, if you’d call me on a Friday midnight whim, together riding the lines back to your place or to mine –
Would our elbows touch? I can see it: two old flames estranged, en route in public privacy, knee snapped familiarly to knee.