When I was 16 and an artist

I would dress in black

And take the subway

From the Bronx to Greenwich Village

To hang out.

I carried a sketchbook and

Rapidograph pen and drew

Fellow passengers on the long ride downtown.

One Saturday as I was walking on Bleeker Street

Holding my sketchbook

This man caught up to me.

He told me

In a French accent

That he had been following me for blocks

Because I had such a lovely round behind.

He said he was a diplomat from Haiti working at the United Nations

And took out his wallet to show me a foreign paper

Which he said proved it.

His name was Louis and he was 32.

We went to his apartment arm in arm

And I discarded my black turtleneck sweater

And black corduroy pants

On the floor

And the experience was positively

Bleeker Street.