Slipping out of my dress
while the deli downstairs is still
busy with people wanting beef patties and
bbq chicken sandwiches on toasted rolls,
I remember that I’m supposed to call my mom
and thank her for getting her motorcycle license
with the guy who runs the dance hall.
And thinking about whether or not to hang it up or
put it in the hamper or
leave it in a yellow puddle of cotton and corset by my bed
I hear the air conditioner down shift.
I’m too tired to move my bicycle,
resting between my tea cart and writing desk,
too tired to move my rollerblades that I’m
sure I will fall over in the morning.
It’s been a beautiful day.
The bride found her gown,
and we gathered around her with all of the
murmuring yes’s a saturday morning
boutique in Chelsea could hold
while she was pinned and tucked
and veiled and glowed like
a woman in love is prone to do.
And now, after the cupcakes
and chiffon, and dancing
and wondering where I’ll live
in two weeks,
I finally decide to drape
the dress over the armchair.
The deli door downstairs still
slams and the bell rings steady
while I crawl into bed,
in the dark of my room.