is like a stranger in a black raincoat. He
flashes perfect white teeth and walks over
to your bus stop in a brisk line. His hand is
outstretched. You automatically shake it.
He wants to know your name, wants you to
walk to his apartment. You find it peculiar
that he actually thinks you'll follow. Maybe
he wants to fuck you. Maybe he'll offer you
crack. Maybe both. You grasp your purse
to your chest and press your back against
the bus sign. You plumb your feet into the
sidewalk cement and put on your city face.
You will never speak to anyone again.
—Tiffany Lee Brown
Excerpted from A Compendium of Miniatures, prose poems by Tiffany Lee Brown. Tiger Food Press, Portland, 2007.