All the numbers that hustle into place
for a date of birth, address. A signature
that’s a set of billowing clouds, a plane
ascent line. He looks into a camera
at the future, blank as a flash. Extra
pages for stamps, all those business trips,
to see different sets of middle-aged men
with sunglasses and cellphone. He only
needed to see them once, but look—
they were on every corner. Most space
outside reserved for cars, he arrived
in his own armoured bubble, left in it.
He stands over himself, reminded of dull
moments he stood in the bathroom,
cum shot of soap in his hand—everything
was something in the way. But there
was that time he called a black cat
a walking piece of midnight, the time
he watched a man give an alarmed look
as elevator doors closed, as though going
to his death. From now on, the entire
world will be Paris in the twenties.