I do my laundry across the street
from the bookstore, and while I wait,
I try to read through the windows.

There’s a book signing today
by Joey’s favorite author. He poses
near the window like a movie preview,
waiting for people to remember his name.
Joey says he’s famous for his handwriting
and he is practicing on the back of a napkin.
When Joey’s bored,
he tries writing quotes on his arm
because it’s more authentic.

I’m washing the sweatshirt
Joey lent to me when we walked
over the Brooklyn Bridge. When he spoke,
he created platforms with his hands
and echoed like he was in a bandshell.
We stopped to watch other people cross
and Joey stood like a character in a novel,
leaning over the side.
Strangers blew his words away with
crowded minivans
and trucks with epitaphs painted
over their logos. His hair
landed like an invitation. I came to see,
peeking between him
The wind made me shiver

and Joey pushed his sweatshirt over me.
I put my hands into his pockets
and he somehow held me.