We’ll share lipstick and buffet brunches,
nights dancing in empty swimming pools,
Drake on the playlist –Baby, come closer—
our hair coiffed at last, but now falling,
falling and frizzing around our bare faces.
We’ll rhumba and shout, a joyous aerosol,
the vapor of here we all are,
the jumble and heat of you can’t
get us now. It will be a miracle
if we don’t undress
or queue up at kissing booths
or board a cruise for Marrakesh.
After months spent like moths
trapped and banging, after
trodding the same floorboards, after
after, after, after it’s over, we’ll
invite the mail carrier for highballs,
our notary and the firefighter
from down the street, and
threads and threads of people
we’ve never met. We’ll linger in doorways,
in coffee shops, beneath porticos, in bowling alleys—
always in promiscuous combinations.
Things I never knew I wanted:
Mosh pits, tattoos, a deep tissue massage.
Bingo nights, week-long poker tournaments,
tables piled high with chips, hundreds
of hands caressing their black and red ridges,
circuses, square dances, days and days
of blue grass on cramped lawns,
a thermos of punch spiked and oversweet
passed from hand to hand to hand.