After art history,
the widow drove me
to my slum studio.
Its only north-facing window
overlooked the vacant lot
where I saw a shootout my first night there.
they hadn’t suspected
her husband’s bad heart.
he had betrayed their now
We hung there,
our hollow faces
reflecting the diagonal streetlight.
Kindness resembles love,
but I had to go to
my menial job.
She dropped me at the office,
where I discovered I was not on the schedule.
How could I make such a mistake?
I ran back into the parking lot
as her taillights disappeared into the night.
I walked back to my shamefaced studio in the dark.
Cutting through the vacant lot
where the shot man died next to his gun,
I decided to let it go.