Everything in this poem really happened:
A man with red hair said
Coney Island. Birthday. Every year.
I heard Rollercoaster, shook my head
(No thank you)
and stayed in the dark party
of dancers, lithe and splendid bodies
crowding the SoHo studio.
I watched the choreographer cook,
forgot about the guy on the subway going south.
I saw him again
when dinner was served.
It was great, he said.
I hadn't tasted meat in years,
but I ate chicken.