No, the Columbia. A great river of thorns and when this stranger stood up and muttered something about a cigarette,  the Hazmat team  in my chest begins to cordon  off my heart, glowing a toxic yellow,  and all I could think about was the punch line "sexy kids," that was it, "sexy kids," and all the children I've cared for, wiping their noses, rocking them to sleep, all the nieces and nephews I love,  and how no one ever  opened me up like a can of soup in the second grade, the man now standing on the sidewalk, smoke smothering his body, a ghost unable  to hold his wrists down  or make a sound like a large knee in between  two small knees, but terrifying and horrible all the same.