such is her finesse

she told me I was a lovely girl
and that her son was lonely.

I was twenty-two,
listening to an almost-widow
apologize for my empty apron.

they told me not to expect anything,
so I didn’t, and told her I’d be fine.

she told me her husband was happy
and that he couldn’t read letters.

So, he couldn’t read “tip,”
but again, it’s not such a faux pas
when we recall the doctor easing cotton out the ear.

recently, I’ve been collected
though I never learned to organize.

truthfully, I’ve never chosen to
as I grab my backpack before the day.

After five, I searched for news
while staring at a love letter rolled up straight
and taut, written in ballpoint ink without any sound of my name.

eyes on the collar, I pawed at my keys,
gaze reciprocated when I pulled out a maxi pad two weeks early.

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