I do not remember the day,
Much less do I remember the hour,
It was like a surprise, or picnic,
A lightning storm,
When I perused the poetry section
Still a bit tipsy from the prior evening—
The afterglow—
Embarrassing pieces of Dickinson, lingerie,
And honestly the best cigarette
Still staining my lack of suit and tie,
And it was there with the nine horse heads,
Quiet and alluring,
Standing in anticipation of my touch between
Bukowski and cummings,
Small and slim,
Adorned in a smooth shell,
The way an Indian princess
Or courtesan
Well-versed in the ways of love
Might lie in expectation of an illicit lover.
And I must admit, my hands trembled
As if you were she,
The first girl I kissed,
As if this was the first time I was to unclasp your bra,
And my fingers, unstable,
Lifted you from the shelf,
Ran my fingertips down your spine,
Kissed your barcode and your price.
And I opened you, I smelled your fragrance,
Your newness between your lines,
I wanted you as my own.
I craved you.
Deliriously.
And smiling,
I took you to the register and—
“Yes, thank you,
I found everything I was looking for.”
