Stainless Steel

No home, he says, eyes sliding up the side of my cheek, glancing off. He means this-does-not-hurt-me but I feel the icicles gather there. He grins and I build stainless steel curves spanning tumbling rivers, morning touching skyscrapers in a galloping race of fire, window-boxes with neat rows of coloring-book perennials, a guitarist, a curb-side case filled with absent quarters. He speaks and I crush glitter-snow into muddy gutters; I paint shadowy entranceways, corner restaurants with tottering old waiters and pizza dripping shimmering grease. His hand against my shoulder is split-second recognition on crowded streets, neon puddles, a spider-web of echoing subway caves. When zippers chase themselves around his bags, he sees distant billboards and hesitates; He leaves, streetlights winking out across my eyes.