I leave.
Breathe heavy.
Dad.
Something’s wrong.
Cross the avenues.
I think about the past few months,
him weak, more tired,
coughing,
up all night
sick.
Pick up speed.
Race across the street.
Down the subway stairs.
Catch the 9 downtown.
Right there in front of me
neon colors:
an advertisement.
Keith Haring cartoons dancing,
telling people to practice safe sex.
I cling to the silver pole.
The train rocks me.
Condoms in the nurse’s office now.
Next stop: 72nd Street.
Red ribbons.
I turn from Keith Haring’s drawing.
Another train passes.
Slices of other people’s faces.
59th Street.
Articles in People magazine.
Fathers denying dying sons, rock and rollers falling from stardom.
Refusing to sit on toilet seats,
take sips from other people’s glasses.
Sucked-in cheekbones,
sunken ribs.
42nd Street.
How did he get so thin without me noticing?
34th Street.
The new plague.
More people dying in this city than ever before.
28th Street.
I look around at the car full of people.
Think about infection, how it stirs inside.
23rd Street.
A death sentence.
And I know.