Convenience Store Madonna

She runs the register
stocks the shelves
moves fluidly
as water over stone
liquid glass
or a prima ballerina making coffee,
not one wasted gesture.
Economy says all.

It’s my bad shift
(who knows what hers was like)
morning after a full moon
but nothing exciting
like a new lover,
only a needy child with a stuffed-up nose,
a stepmother allergy and alligator nightmares,

I’ve got other kids
waiting this morning
a long drive
to tell dying stories
to kids
everyone wants to throw away
and every SUV on the road is
an urban assault vehicle
with their drivers and steering wheels
just a trigger/barrel-turn away
from over-the-edge-of-no-return

and the clerk turns, says
What you need, baby?
I’ll get you outta here quick.

Consolation

Rain seeps into early morning sleep,
leaking into a dream.

You don’t want to leave
the man in the dream behind.

He admires your dancing,
your full body curved as ancient votives.

You want to take him with you
into the waking world

where the rain is so heavy with pollen,
a chef could mistake it for saffron.

And you linger in the shower.
You choose the silkiest shirt in the closet

And later, when you want to be done
with sticky air clinging to your clothes,

you can’t even call his name
because you don’t know it.

You catch your breath
feeling his eyes caress

through the silky shirt moving
against bare belly.

He is still with you,
subtle as breath.