Lizzy Burnam 🐞

A good memory is one trained to forget

I once met a millwright in a basement-level cocktail bar
in Omaha, Nebraska. The bartender offered to show us a magic trick;
a lemon disappeared and reappeared before our eyes. 

In college, I interned as a behavioral interventionist for a boy
with autism, mostly non-verbal. At the end of every Saturday shift,
before I left, he gently took my hand and said, "dance." 

I think, often, of the four people in the Nighthawks painting. 
Their separate lives congregated for an evening—only to avoid
looking at each other, their faces obscured by distance. 

What were their names?