going up

My fly is unzipped.
Just like the Vietnamese philosopher
that cornered me in elevator conversation said:
I'm trapped in an eight-year old's body.
Standing before the N section on the 4th floor,
he waited for my reflection to speak something profound
of his Microsoft-painted Vermeer.
It was a confused copy, screaming Fauve,
Woman-In-A-Hat's sister,
a sorry separation.

I backed away and shuffled books on the shelves,
faking interest in titles on technology
and gender.

—From prose, drafted 01/24/11

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