by R. Stempel
The meter reader is at my door & I’m going to shit myself.
There’s a tungsten quality in a man
every half-moon, forces an encore but I forget how
to walk altogether when I sense an audience
It would be endearing if I were prettier, but
any upheaval will do.
He’s not convinced the smell not yet subsided, maybe
one more lap to the washing machine & back &
it’ll settle in sebaceous so
he’ll want to shower.
The doorjamb is synapse is one good kick from upset
outlines the meter reader in wobbly contours
resurrects what I know of men like him to be true.
The doorjamb is tight enough to pluck
a widower fantasy from its source & the gag’s up,
we both want an end.
A real head-scratcher he hums & I secure us into waltz
beneath fluorescents. The washer-dryer drumming in accompaniment
makes it easy to undress, save
for footwear, rubber soles drag on faux
linoleum so we giggle in hiccups They’re not our real bodies.