Now What

Now What

Some of us are pulled into
secondhand shops.
We wander and touch hems
of other people’s skirts
hung on a silver rack a bit
above waist level,
like a line of invisible girls
pushing anxiously
forward. In the used bookstore,
we go to the scariest
room, the room in which towers
of books threaten to
bury us if we choose the wrong
book to yank from
the pile. We look for the thing
that speaks to us, as if
it has been waiting for us, there
is something in it
we need to be told. In museums,
where the colors
of the walls and the frames around
the art point like arrows.
On the bus, a person stepping on
or deciding to leave.
In the cafe, in the cookie we buy
because it screams
at us through the display case,
on the radio station
or in personal ads or job postings,
isn’t someone seeking
what we have.
Keep watching your email inbox,
most of us keep
waiting for a message from that
sender who has
worked so hard to make contact.
There are only
so many places for the future
to hide from us.