When he had finished offering me the world
and stretched up to switch on the light
and looked back with a curious green glow
in his eyes—his cheeks plumped out and young-looking—
at his handiwork, me lying there replete,
a jetted calf, pinioned,
a vodka bottle nodding in the hollow between us
like it had some fang-dang urgent message,

I felt like I was 14 and had raced in my lunch hour
to the store with the jade velvet jacket in the window,
carried on a wave of longing and with all the confidence
of sudden money, only to be met in the lobby by the assistant
in civvies, saying ‘we don’t open on Tuesdays’
and his wife in the corner dressed sharp and rocking violently,
her gorgeous green lapels rising and falling with mirth.

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