The person pointed at me their finger
and so I found him, on a chair in a pizzeria.
Gotcha; you I know. I had seen you before.
You and I, we both wore the same idea
of anonymity, like a woolly blanket in summer,
an air of suffocating stupidity about us.
In a chair where I sat for one large capricciosa,
the person beside me pointed at me their finger.
Anonymity is to sit in a pizzeria and be set
apart from your body, from your hunger, aloof.
At the point of the person’s finger, the inflated
idea of my anonymity hissed to a slump
in the chair of a pizzeria. Who was this person,
and why were they pointing their finger?