Woo-Woo turned a trick in the Rent-a-Toilet 
last night. I watched her pull the man in, 
septic dark pocked with paper towels,
clefts of rain.

The world was one place, then overnight,
it became someplace else.

In other words, this is always going to be
about mine, not yours.

I am teaching myself to see the street
as sleep is seen: 

Woo-Woo with a toothache, jaw looped 
with panty hose. Even mentioning her
is a gentrification. 

I make it sound like I know an answer. 

She is not you and we honor this emptiness.