Reading Bukowski in the 4th floor seating section of Barnes and Noble,
I raise my wrist to my nose again, for the third time.
The man in Sephora talked me through the perfumes with notes of rose, and sprayed little paper samples for me.
I let myself be picky. No to Stella McCartney, no to Issey Mi something. oh. Oh yes, to Bvlgari. But not now. Perhaps I’ll come back for it.
Love Is A Dog From Hell
And I am finished with my work for the week. This is the back row in church again, I’m hiding blush and looking to see who noticed.
I’ve got work to do. My lipstick is fresh, red as an apple skin. These poems will not read themselves.
I wonder how many people break a day the way that I do, or who else is carving their life.
It isn’t the irony of ‘tonight’ that keeps me here,
Although I know that is it, in part.
It’s that I can’t remember where my feet should go, and the words on his page are so charming.