by Gary Percesepe

I sat on the toilet in the lobby bathroom at the Waldorf=Astoria for several hours hiding from my girlfriend. She came from a small town in Illinois where most of the residents were under house arrest, having misplaced their sliver of luck. Thoughts large and small coursed through my head like scampering mice. In our dreams the poet says we stand on shore for what seems an eternity and it is always the wrong shore. My girlfriend talked like one of the sea people, her voice salt and water, her queer liquid laugh. She'd peek over my shoulder and say “Another poem that's not about me.” Fine, I'd say. But most of us occupy the wrong space in the human parking lot. Alone among the animals we babysit ourselves listening to the shrill music of adolescence of which the less said the better. I tipped the attendant and strolled outside. Overhead, the planets roared through the night sky, clouds of dust and gas lost among the stars.