the bland blonde bank girls of the world
have suave admirers with stubble and a perfect job.
they appear beneath their windows with posterboard and radios
beg for forgiveness & sob.
she always takes him back. as for us, a gentle silence
accumulates like snowfall in the car. i am thoroughly sealed
preserved beneath glass, a grasshopper trapped in a mason jar.
i look out on all the twinkling lights:
how-i-won-der-what-you-are
i write to you from the cabinet of curiosity, i scratch
with pen nib, devoted very much indeed. tuesday morning, 9 am
a secretary's letters, a voice bound by tweed, a perfect lipstick stain
a suit too tight around the waist and hips,
the collar itchy, the silent sound of bitten lips. hair upswept to the point of pain.
legs crossed, arms open. the movies rarely show
this pinnacle of intimacy, the chaste embrace.
there is no deeper place for me to go. the soft, dry warmth that moves towards sleep,
a gentle breathing, the placid face, the room bathed in an aqua glow
you are with me that is all i know
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