I have been down this story before. There were no feelings there, only sensations. Men confuse the two.

I was looking for my hat
The red one I wear at the bakery.
This being the only article of clothing
To afford me a compliment
In a kitchen,
That makes it important.
I bought it for 5 dollars.

My uniform of subdued gender.

The curves of a woman
Only travel so far.
They will lead you toward an
Unsolicited shoulder
Massage from a sous chef.
Who says,
You seem so tense.
Well, you are touching me.
So, yes.

I was looking for my hat.
The book of his poems must have gone
Sliding off my mattress
With the rest of Monday morning.
It was waiting in the doorway
When I got home.

Had already learned the sound.
My footsteps, on my toes.
Like some failed ballerina.
How I never chose
The right key for the second lock on the first try.
The ring of bells that mark the end of a day.

Panting frayed pages.
Begged to play
To be fed.
It barked-
Take me on a walk!
To that coffee shop.
I like the girls that sit there.
They are a bakery case full
Of my day-old mistakes.

I have no energy for this evening.
Spent all day fermenting
Yeast-leavened doughs and steam-leavened stanzas.
I moved to Brooklyn,
Now even my poems are gluten-free.
I am wrapped in sugar and sweat and red hat.
I paid 5 dollars for this,
It’s important.

I awoke with his words on my bed-side table.
A reminder to take my birth control.


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