As we depart Washington Square,
I realize she looks exactly like a slightly more Caucasian girl
who sat across me on the C train
on September 11,
with that same lucid gaze glazed over her eyes,
unwavering from/for me,

and as we near 14th street
I realize she looked just like
the girl who told me my poem was beautiful
first time I read at the Knitting Factory,
now the train is pulling in with crash and rancor,
beams whiz split
my field of vision screen,
attack my cerebral perceptions
taunt my visceral cognition
implant a premonition
that
all three girls are one and the same
father, son, and Holy Ghost (respectively)

I feel haughty
to have received the glimpse,
not just the glimpse
but the stare
of air,
of the Big Daddy Pimp,
almighty wavelength itself,

but I feel also silly,
small,
undeserving
to have not started back
and made love with soul contact,

she gets off at Times Square,
I get off at Columbus Circle
figuring it’s time to switch to the local C,
and as I see the train pull away
I realize it was a C.

Foolish mortal,
why do I waste my time?