There are sins
unforgivable:
not for all the
Key lime pie
on the Eastern Seaboard;
not even if you know
to take your hair down
before bed.
I was that woman once
or thrice--
the lover who's unaware
that there's another
in the woodwork.
He's threatened to jump
without you
and you should let him.
I did.
I learned to float.
There's a balance
that we're here to learn.
There's a line
that can't be crossed.
Throw the mess
of yourself
at the nearest wall
and see what sticks.
It pays
in other ways.
You're nothing
but purse dirt.
Say it back:
Your words hurt.
Carbon copy
reruns
are too blunt
are too curt.
Time's been too kind
to a pervert.
The kid's bus unloaded
at the Away Team's arena
before my Union contract's
dismissal time allowed
for an expedient commute
up the Parkway.
I tried like hell
to beat the clock
as always, boxing out
those attempted right-lane passers
with a deathgrip at seven
on my steering wheel
my right hand on the horn
and this grin that only
those with nothing left to lose
would know.
I'd never been to my city's high school
but a parking lot's a parking lot.
Walking the fence
as those boys kicked their ball
yielded nothing more or less
than my day of pulling wrenches.
Swearing I saw him
across the field, in the tented dugout
I trekked across from the bleachers
and stood feet from where
he sat with his clipboard
hoping he'd stand
and see me at the chain links.
That didn't happen.
I refrained from calling
his name through the canvas
for fear of embarrassing
a man in the making.
My drive home
shortly thereafter
left me with two questions
neither of which
I'll ask here and now:
