Cognizance

She peers into my eyes,
the best chocolate Nestle never made,
and is confused: why is this guy
across the counter? Why is he
with a sea of garmentry?

She speaks of the deadlines that organize
a dry cleaner's life: have a shirt
in by eight-fifteen and get it back by three.
I say, today I meet with product placement
at three, that I can make it by five,
and she huffs, somehow offended
her service does not fit into my lifestyle.

We take turns defining our lives
and unaccepting the other. It hits me,
why must I explain my life away?

Her forehead furrows (in accusation?),
bumps the air, bothers me into thought --
my frame made bulky by a tailor's needle,
my double-breasted grays betraying the latte
in my skin --
as her fingers dance through a rack
of sportcoats destined for the City.
What about her? Her stooped shoulders
could be my mother's; those crow's feet a gift from
another me, and I realize she is the only one
I have even seen here, tensing whenever the entrance door moves,
sweeping the chipped counter clean with her palm,
a Vietnamese patroling a dry cleaner on a streetcorner
with grills in the windows. I want to tell
her the truth, tell her that I too shut in
when the sun goes down, but the look in her eyes
says she is convinced I am not her,
though we share heritage, our progenitors
having pulled rice stalks in twilight
half the world away.