bill cunningham’s ghost leads me

maggie chirdo

into the park / Central Park
not some obscure / off-the-beaten path park /
keeps it obvious / but I’m so thick with grief

Final exams loom / I am a cheap coat / ten tonnes of coffee
his stride outpaces mine / an incredible clip
His bike stolen / again / His uniform: blue chore
jacket, khakis / a perfect disguise for standing out.

I record this following / create video evidence. Proof of only
moderate insanity / I delete it.

For a final project in a course called Walking the City I build a
tour around Bill’s best known haunts / so a ghost was anticipated /
but I can’t keep pace / could never keep pace.

Any time I hear / devout artist / sad lapsed catholic / no family contact /
my hand twitches over the big red button labelled GAY /
but he’s gone / caught crying in a single interview / and gone now

Whatever he has to show me is out there still / I must
believe this.

about the author

Maggie Chirdo (she/her(s)) is a writer from a humid slice of southeast Texas. Her poetry and journalism appears in Texas Observer, Entropy Magazine, Bitch Media, Little Blue Marble, and elsewhere. If Twitter still exists, come chat with her about fashion and the queer southern gothic @maggiechirdo.