it’s half past two on a clear blue-skied saturday afternoon
you’re on your way to the MET
a good half an hour late but it’s okay
- CP time all day
so you know, you just strollin’ through, lettin your eyes peruse
lips curlin’ up at humans doing human things, you know, the usge
and that’s when you see her -- a human with a particularly esoteric auric hue 
seated beneath the bronze angel-winged statue
with a bedazzled sign that reads “FREE HAIKUS”
and you think ‘shieeet well, don’t mind if i do’
but when your legs move 
they redirect you to somewhere you can get a better view
you know, cuz you gotta get a full understanding 
of what shawty with the green keyboard do so 
here you are 
attached to this tree as its new conspicuous limb
watching from afar 
as her sauntering smile salutes strangers passing by and 
that's when she greets you
eyes first, smile second -- and you feel like oreos dipped in warm milk --
dunked! drowning! yet so warm! and wet? damn! focus!
on eyes that seem to call your legs back into a trance
because suddenly you’ve manifested yourself in front of her
left the tree to lean on its own limbs
and before you even have to think of what to say

she says:

“come, share an experience. i’ll listen, 
type you a little poem, think of it as a mini memoir
just for you”
and all your silly self can say is:
“just for me?”
she chuckles:
“just for you”

so you share
the little things about your big personality
and she asks you questions that make 
the little excited voice in your head go:
‘damn, she’s really listening’
so you share a little more then 
draw back to watch her take to this task
her fingers flying from letter to letter
as the typewriter makes its thg-thg sound
and shawty was a magician of sorts for sure
cuz as you read the poem she’d typed for you
tears unsummoned suddenly appear 
leaving parallel trails down your cheeks 
but there are no words you can think to speak
the poem says it all
and you remain in awe
at how someone was able to tap into your memory’s reservoir 
to write you a mini-memoir
with a pattern of verb-beds and syllable sheets your mind 
couldn’t dream to imagine
and so you weep.

you reread and weep.

and when you finally speak,
from lips salted by tear-stained cheeks
“it just feels so good to be heard”

her eyes embrace yours
as she speaks to your soul with the words:

“it feels good to be seen.
thank you for coming from behind the tree.”