In a city with thirty-thousand restaurants
and three hundred sky scrapers
and thirteen thousand taxis
KC guides us through a garden gate
to the open window
of an old brick church
and greets Father Spencer
in his office. Within a minute
we are sitting in a small paneled room
full of photos and poems
and hands cut out of paper,
and though there are nearly
nine million people
thrumming around us,
for a few quiet moments
his attention makes us feel
as if amidst it all
we count.