It’s just such a fine French lace – nothing as cheap and easy
as last night. It’s hard enough to find something that really fits,
something that holds a breast as if it cared, makes me look
younger and firmer and supported the way men like, or like
to imagine before it comes off. Smooth as the lingering tip
of a tongue, pink as unblemished flesh, a fantasy lingerie.
And I’m sure it’s just under the bed, kicked back when you
or I got up this morning, thoughtlessly discarded with the rush
to get out to the world, abandoned as last night’s excitement.
What did you say you did, other than look through the bottom
of a scotch as if it had cross-hairs? You wore hunter’s camouflage
into that noisy club, a tailored suit that attracted a designer skirt.
So, in the light of day, I’m just saying I really want that bra back.
We can meet somewhere, or arrange a time and place where you
could leave it like some old-fashioned ransom note. No expectation
of another date. There was a reason neither of us left a number,
or can connect a name, although I can still smell your fragrance
on my blouse. With my good things I’m usually less careless.