On St. John’s and Franklin Avenue

there is a bullet hole in the pay phone.

He reaches out to touch its opening

and I am instantly jealous. He tells

the story about the robbery and the

bodega as the police camera follows

our journey. The new neighbors stumble

drunk from the new and expensive pub.

Its decor is a hodgepodge of old tile and

rusted picture frames. We pretend we

do not feel out of place. Control the volume

in our tone. We jerk at the megaphone symphony

all slurred and entitled from the blonde girl

with torn jeans. She is on stage. She is a rockstar.

This corner of crime and dirt and curry is her audience.

She knows she owns the sidewalk. She wants

another beer. She wants her boyfriend’s lips.

She wants the world’s attention. Her pout says,

this has been promised to her since birth. Her friends

shake their head at us apologetically. We nod.

Accept this favor with disgust and envy.

We walk away. Further down the block.

He no longer remembers the story about the

bodega. The robbery. It is too silent. He

walks on my right, nearest the curb to signal

my safety. My hand wants to brush his—but

it is Brooklyn. It is late, and that’s something

people just don’t do.