“You have the uncommon gift of common sense”

I wonder if the writer bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing,

And try to see the matte gray finish of a smoke-reduced machine.

I know there is no smoke inside a fortune cookie factory,

And that “she” may not exist, although I like to think she does.

I am white. And male.

And actually low on common sense,

And my disposable income of privilege allows me the luxury

Of a few domesticated neurotic tics.

If I met this fortune-cookie girl, whom I like to think

Is smarter than her place requires, and stronger, and except

For some decision years ago, needs not work at a place like that:

Hot, and full of imaginary smoke—

Maybe her son was born too young, and her parent’s rage, though dimly felt now,

Was enough to send her from her home –

She wouldn’t be there.

I like to think that I have passed her by in line

To get a cup of coffee, have a smoke outside, and watch

The dreaming clouds of smoke on the edge of vision,

And thought her cute, but couldn’t think of how to say the charming things

That it would take to break the shell

Of matte-gray finish and of smoke.