“They’re all here,” she would say
when another odd thing took place.

Emphasis on the “aw” in “all”
as if her mouth
could enclose
the oddity.

But it couldn’t
there was still the man
playing flute on the subway stairs
and the looming third rail
Dorothy who lived downstairs
her mop, vaguely her hair
she died and no one knew for three days
the doorman from Yugoslavia
who owned a building and a black escalade

And of course
she and me
walking to school
amidst stories.