My name is Podrigotuma and I write poetry and read poetry.

I think sometimes people think that poetry is this lofty art to which the ordinary everyday

experience bows down in a sense of ineptitude and inadequacy.

When really it's the other way around, poetry bows down to unexpected human encounters,

to unexpected moments, to meetings with strangers that we have, something surprising that

comes out of nowhere that we want to hold an honour and bow down to and the poem tries

to do that with us.

Wishing Well by Gregory Partlow.

Outside the Met a man walks up, sung tweaking, the brim stick around his starter cap and he

says pardon me old school, he says, you know is this a Wishing Well?

Yes, on I say sideways over my shrug, throw your bread on the water.

I tighten my chest, weasy as rock-way beach sand with a pool of full smoke from my e-sig,

to cozy the truckulence I hotbox alone and I am at the museum because it is not a bar.

Because he appears not to have changed them in days, I, I, the heel chewed hymns of his pants

and think probably he will ask me for 50 cents any minute now, wait for it, a smoke or something.

Central Park displays the frisking transparency of autumn, tracing paper sky, leaves like eraser

crumbs gum the pavement.

As if deciphering celestial script, I squint and purr soft toward the roofline of the

museum, a loof as he fists two pennies from his pockets mumbling and then allowed my

man, he says, hey my man, I am going to make a wish for you too.

I am laughing now, so what, you want me to sign a waiver?

He laughs along and say all that he says, but you do have to hold my hand and close your

...