False Directions

The Novocaine is quitting, leaving my jaw

to deal with the facts of the morning.

The tourist had a map folded like a crisis

and eyes that squinted through grease-smudged lenses.

He wanted the museum. He wanted the 4 train.

I told him no, it doesn't go there,

just because the thought of explaining the transfer

felt like lifting a piano.

I watched him walk toward the wrong entrance,

his thumb tracing a grid of streets

that would never lead him to the art.

My mouth is starting to throb

where the needle went in.