Bodega | D’Accord

Black Econoline

panel van

leaves the parking lot and

slowly crawling

scales my field of vision,

a fizzing squib of sunlight fixed

to the luggage rack

the pedestrian overpass hiccups.

In a building

made to break apart in sections

in case of an earthquake

a janitor

can’t pronounce the name I can’t remember

for the third, no,

wait a minute, fourth time.

Our agreement

lodged where you can’t find it

driving your windowless van on a stretch of unfinished

rural road:

no reduced speed ahead

highway signs

at least as far back as you remember.

D’accord:

to let on to this janitor,

and all the others like him.

The name he is looking right through me for

I finally realize isn’t

a name at all,

rather some antlered thing

from which neither of us will ever extricate himself.

The girl who’s off to the side buying some blonde fudge.

I want to know

who’s to say to no one

in particular

she doesn’t know my heart’s desire, and who will overhear.

When she approaches.

I don’t have to slow down here, do I?

D’Accord