Directions

She didn't use a knife or scissors.

She used her thumbs to find the crease

of the city transit map, peeling the paper

into thirty-two perfect, jagged squares.

She handed one to the man in the suit.

She handed one to me.

I took it because my hands were empty

and my jaw was tight with the cold.

By the time I stepped onto the curb,

the ink had bled into my palm.

I found a scrap of it later,

stuck to the rubber heel of my boot,

a white tooth of paper in the mud.

I still don't know where I'm going

and neither did the bus.