Dear Editor,

            In another city he would think I’m Italian

                                                                         Iranian, or

                                                                             from such place

                                                                                                with mist, history.

            He would shuffle all night, busy

                              from friend-to-table, from table-to-friend

                                                mind supine by mine in a thrill, some imaginary.

As I leave, I’d slip him a piece of paper with an international code and a note that reads,

Don’t let time play us for fools

Whatsapp me.

I’d check into an unknown address where trees hug

                        a balcony and keys are big in brass with swirls that say, take me.

In the room, I’d trade my hooves for heels

shake the hunger of city peddlers off my body. I’d wait

for the phone to ding  and when it does, I’d find a message that reads,

   Where are you from?

  Tell me

                                                                                      Tell me

                                                                                      Tell me

                                                & I would tell him, not here, not a sad story.

                                                                                                            Alternatively,

                                                                                                                 Someone Else