A Poem About That Person We'Ve All Encountered

T'es Ou? That's all I heard for 10 minutes straight one sautéed Brussels morning in the metro with everyone, their brother, perhaps their dog peeing on my leg, or at least, it felt that way, sweat running down inside my trousers and this one woman who refused to shut up, pink phone clutched in glittery talons, cheap earrings swaying in time with her hand and three offspring exploring the car like raccoons in my trash, threading through my legs, drooling. "T'es Où?" "Where are you?" as they say in London Who could say? Possibilities abound. Prague is nice this time of year. The local department store had an ad, two-for-one socks, today only. North Korea's not half bad. "T'es Où?" Not here, obviously, being brighter and more fortunate than I, who is here, who can hear you, who wishes he couldn't , who wishes North Korean visas were easier to acquire. "T'es Où?" was the last thing I heard, her voice, her odour, her brood, trailing out the door into the baked street above, where she may still be looking for that person's hiding spot, her children sniffing trees in her wake.