I would not have noticed her if our car had not cleared of people at Lexington Avenue.
She wore a tattered stocking cap.
She removed it and stuffed it into her jacket.
She held a grimy white bag between her legs.
She reached into it and pulled out half of a doughnut.
That was when I noticed her shoes.
The uppers had split from the soles; her feet were wrapped in newspaper and rags.
I thought, Mother, you need shoes.
I looked up and watched her untangle a lock of matted grey hair.
She reached into her bag and found bobby pins.
She styled the loosened lock of hair into a bun.
I wondered is forty dollars would do.
I had forty dollars.
It was for vitamins; specifically: anti-oxidants.
My body is rusting faster than a wet Ford.
The crows feet around my eyes whispered: erase us, your…
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Kit was a bit of a twit before he got sick, but he was brilliant and passionate about gay liberation.
Our friendship was based on mutual geekiness.
Kit tinkered with a Mac or a Tandy while I wrote poetry and listened to Pattie Smith through my headphones.
It was the third year of the AIDS epidemic.
Kit opened his backpack and pulled out a small computer.
It looked like a large calculator.
Kit said that HIV was not infecting all gay men.
He suspected that HIV was sexually transmitted, but at that time no one was certain.
We both knew many men who had died and even more who were sick.
Kit wanted to know what they had in common.
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