Woman from the Minivan

I paced around the block,
taking mental notes about
beautiful, useless things,
like the glint
of passing bikes in the night –
then went back to the front stoop
of the brownstone,
where I sat again, waiting.
A woman came out of her minivan
to sit beside me and ask
What are you doing here, so late?
I didn’t want to say.
I’m waiting to get a tattoo, she said,
sucking beer
through her buck teeth
and pointing at a window
across the street.
Of what? I asked.
She didn’t know,
but would when
the moment came.