Curled

Curled

Soon my heart will stop,

and I will balance my affections

against a different feather.

You won’t anticipate the pain

that rocks me, my soles curled

like a sleeping infant’s.

I will gather the lilies and set

them on our bed, but you will be

missing, absent, gone; going up,

going down, with a stranger

brushing your arm in a hotel

elevator.  Yes, stuck with another

man cruising and brushing his

arm against your elbow.

And I will not be there to save

you from all the gossip.  You will

slip away with him into a corridor

until you reach a door that he will

open.  Then you will enter the room

and I will be missing.