Sometimes I want to write a poem but I don’t have a poem. I thought of holding the door open for the man with a walker in my neighbourhood—the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I thought of walking slowly behind a woman with two walking sticks on my way home from the coffee shop. I thought of the woman shuffling in Central Park with one black sneaker and one white. And I thought of the woman holding two pit bulls on the same leash while they were in a rolling fight on my way home. Was it enough for a poem? You decide.