You slide into the last seat
on the last bench. A young woman
taps her phone. You sit on her purse.
She tugs it safe and continues her missive.
On your other side—too close—
sits a gray messenger in gray jeans.
Vodka years and cigarette decades
waft from his beard, forming fog.
He spots your name and claims it.
He asks your sign—your stars align.
No escape. Poke me, he says, at Geary.
Then falls asleep, dead as an angel.