THE REAL ESTATE AGENT DROPS IN UNEXPECTEDLY
I hate her Saab. Her sob, too, which I can
hear through the space-time continuum.
She cried once. And now she opens my door,
unannounced. An ounce of apology.
It was there, once, in the space-time continuum.
In present, she says, "I won't say ain't around you."
Or "I'd better not." She must have read my manifesto,
my, "I will kill users of colloquial contractions."
I'm hard core. On the corner, afraid to go home.
I am a hole, a hole-in-one, she must think.
Please, Miss, I promise.
I will place a pink bow on my door,
on my pretty little head and trim my toe nails,
tell the prospective buyers of my undying love.
I will empty my lungs, shouting, "Buy! Buy!"
at the corner for you. With my clean teeth. My big heart.
I am doing it now, in space-time, in the continuum.
Can't you see? Can't you pick up the phone and call?
I am missing your voice.
Your clean teeth.