Today, you counted your steps
walking home from the bus stop.
You thought about the boy
sitting to your right,
a lock of golden brown
slicing his forehead,
a lighter's warm tip
pressed to the green vinyl seat.
The scream of old brakes.
A girl, safety pins in her ears
and burns in the crook
of each elbow. The time
was four-thirty. The hedges
cast shadows on black knee highs.
Eighty-five. Eighty-six. Eighty-
seven. A flagrant, radium sunset.
If the phone signals two rings,
turn to page fifty nine.
If the note lies still folded
by the courtyard gate,
turn to one hundred and six.