I have change in my pocket,
could use the pay phone,
call Chloe. Dylan.
What would I say?
Hey, what’s up,
my dad’s gay?
Instead,
I use my change
on the bus
float
back across town.
Run upstairs
to the Yearbook office.
My advisor’s there.
Asks if I’ve thought of a theme yet.
Suddenly New York City feels like a lie.
Fake. Filthy.
I look up at the white ceiling,
dotted with a million pinpricks like stars,
and I say
how about space?