for b
we are most ourselves in the skinny hours before eight fifteen.
you sometimes don’t bother stirring.
for me a shower and curl of mascara will do.
sometimes i close the door
try on every blouse i own,
pour myself into dresses and slacks
sweet talk stubborn zippers to satisfy
some need to be seventeen and slender again.
you wait patiently, picking gravel from the teeth of your shoes.
nothing particular on your mind
no work, no coffee, no clients to disappoint
just the WOOOOOSH of the bathroom door
and there i am; and here you are.
you sucking the air between your teeth
the door tucked closed behind me
nevermind the displaced garments. the rejects of this mourning’s plunder.
here i am, there you are, sucking the air through your teeth
content to know now, not seventeen, or eighteen, or twenty two.
now; here we are; nice to meet you.
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