Kevin Vaughn

New York

From the window of this cafe, only people in bright, thin clothes stand out.

Next to me, a Persian and a Chinese girl talk life after university.

It is a challenge to understand anyone through their accents; old cities and villages bleed through.

We are all transient, all here for a reason. No one ever names the organ that allows a city everyone takes from to continue.

A Honduran busses my dishes as I write this. Startled by my acknowledgment, he nods.

Who was he twenty years ago? Russian? Afghani? Samoan? I have not lived here that long. Perhaps he was born here.

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