We sat in a semicircle
at the strip club, me between
my six male friends, all of us
damp from rain and bathed
in blue light. As dancers dipped
into the laps of my companions,
I rearranged my face, took sips
of whiskey, thought, I’m Tony Soprano.
I felt far from everyone,
not man enough to drool, not naked
enough to dance. Having assumed
myself a coolly unbothered woman,
I was surprised my friends wouldn’t
look me in the eye.
Morning after we meet: a parade
in the street. Brass instruments blasting
gladly. Of the dozen we crack,
ten eggs hold double yolks.
When it rains, the town floods. Your dog
and your neighbors huddle at the window.
Suddenly: our dog, our neighbors.
Our basement, puddled.
Mouse poop like cartoon jewels
glittering inside the white shoe.
Millions of seeds arrow upward into green.
Your legs entwine mine in earthworm parody.
Inside each day, I can feel the round outline
of all the time in the world.