Under white bulbs Dr. Black studies me through the glass. I will be figure A on page three, and how I purchase jazz CDs will be section II, which will have footnotes on 21st century Latinos in White suburbia, the economic decisions of lost boys, references to Dr. Earnst’s Entitlements of the Capuchin, and droll digressions on such and such and such— dear Erwin musing on the thirteen times we happened upon each other in life, the most embarrassing being when I wore a pig mask to what I thought was a masquerade but which ended up being my own funeral. One day we’ll vaguely recall the white sky on the morning we met through an imaginary friend, a girl who we forgot to name. Does it matter, if it never really happened? I just remember when you were a child you looked through the glass for me, and when I wasn’t there you waited through the night.