Who was it gave me this Japanese forgetting, this American forgetting; did she weep in the center of the room, asking why didn’t I warn her about those white people?
Who was it gave me this Rolodex of dirty air with addresses of smoke; was it the friend (of another) who gave me the mouse pad with her hopeless second thoughts?
Who was it gave me this promising vertical smudge on the back of my mind; was it a girl with the court ordered ankle bracelet, a compression of sorrow behind the counter?
Who was it that gave me this popcorn of gunshot reverb cracklings; was it some kid I lugged out of the park after the shooting, on my hip?
Who was it gave me this tipped tilting drained off sea of mornings; I thought it was one or the other, I thought maybe it was someone who knew.

Cup. Cup in my hand.

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