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Migraine knocking.

Cervix clawing.

Hormones howling.

Strangers keep glancing,

wondering if I’m famous or feral.

Could be anyone.

Selena back from the dead…

Edward Cullen…

They’ll never know.

Then a sound drifts down the block?—

some street musician bleeding into six strings,

a guitar riff cutting through traffic

and gut-punching me.

I freeze?—

mid-cramp, mid-step, mid-breath.

It’s slow, mournful,

“Dream On”stripped down to bone and smoke.

Aerosmith doesn’t show up in your life

unless you want it to.

I glance left.

It’s a guy in a wool coat.

Worn beanie. Fingerless gloves.

Amp strapped to a luggage cart.

I reach into my pocket for my phone

to text Andrew,

to say,you won’t believe what I just heard.

I wrap my fingers around the device,

then stop.

Aerosmith? On Fifth? At 9 a.m.?

Come on. Seems a little too…convenient.