And some nights when he’s positive you must be awake, although you never have circles under your eyes whenever you sit face to face on that five a.m. commute, your fellow passengers trying to hit play on dreams put on pause by morning showers, he imagines himself reading you a poem by Szymborska out loud. You don’t seem like the poetry-liking type, but maybe he could be the poetry-liking type who likes people who don’t like poetry, after all your knees brush against each other every morning, riding the five-in-the-morning koasi, everyone’s spying eyes window-ward, searching desperately for the dream derailed by a gayung full of cold water, and maybe you could be the type who likes listening to a person who likes both poetry and people who don’t like poetry reading Szymborska’s poetry to you out loud.