Macarthur station: smoking on concrete bench. I lock gazes with this guy. I can't tell if he's eyefucking me or just contemplating intensely whether or not I'd give him a light. On this concrete bench. Full of artichoke hearts and hefeweizen. Piss and vinegar. This morning the sleepy eyed,
two-year-old light of my life asked, "Frances do you know that your body is full of blood?"