I imagined a scene worth
noting down: the luggage
tagged for Paris,
tissue undoing mascara
from her lashes, perhaps
fourth of July fireworks.
She: on the back porch,
deaf to my words.
I pictured a taxi outside,
yellow as her sundress
when summer was barely
adolescent on grass.
Tonight she unlocked
the door, the runs in her
stockings like Dear John
letters. The color on
her cheeks made me think:
This is a blind date.
A woman's heels can strike
a clear Morse code
up the stairs.
I let myself out
the same way I came in.
