Before my travels, I rip away the magazine label
so no one will see my name, as if this useless 
reflex could protect me. I carry 
a cylinder of Life Savers without irony, a pen, 
and my own hand, skin like parchment ready
to be inked. In the subway arcade 
the barbershop is dark, a scrawled note taped
to its door: Sorry. We are closed Now.

Such gaiety in the faces of the talk show guests, 
gesturing from a flat-screen TV that looms 
above empty enamel chairs. Their soundless 
speech fuels my sudden fear for the owner —
a Buddhist convert, I’ve been told, the one 
who scatters carnations daily at the base
of a scrawny elm nearby. Crescents of black hair
track across the floor like commas in a narrative: 
this and this and then this happened here.

But I don’t know what happened here, and wonder
if “Now” is temporary or forever, a capitalized
moment that will never go beyond itself, and if
the lips will continue to move 
until someone pulls the plug, and if
the message applies to me as I turn aside to descend
more steps that will carry me deeper down.