I thought about how my parents met

I thought about how my parents met,

but no, that’s too grand, too much like a movie.

I’m just looking at my palms, the lines

crossing like a busy intersection.

The man in pinstripes is kneeling

over the iron bars of the storm drain.

His keys went down with a sound like a hammer

hitting a hollow tooth. I can feel it in my jaw.

I’m watching his tie swing—

a dark grease stain shaped like a map

of some country where nobody ever gets lost.

I have to use these hands for something, eventually,

if not to catch things before they fall.