Above the Persian Grocery

Buy a goldfish, water, or a hookah.
Check the posters on the windows
and let the shop keeper's lids
squeeze crescent moon-shaped
around ink-happy eyes.
He bows his head, calling you a young lady
when you jingle onto the street and echo up
the stairs to dance on a Sunday.

For the love of needing that water.
For the feel of the bar in your hand, the
piano plink, and the floor you solidly push
away with your feet.
A muscled back you know is your own.

Through the windows, separated by concrete
owls, you see dogs with leashes in their
mouths. Striped awnings. Petunias.
A sparrow flies behind an owl to its nest.