Mr. Right Now
You'll do, she says with a shrug,
unrelenting, resplendent,

she is a drum, loud
and frothing, she moves
like she's been caged for
the last decade,

finally unanchored

she uses words like beguiled,

bequeathed,
and watches men's eyes furrow together
as they try to decipher her

her mantra is that a man can touch
her skin, even burrow further down
until he's close to her bones, but her
mind is a solemn creature

untouched,

she won't let anyone get that close.

Mr. Right Now
can tickle her ankle, listen to her
stories, move the hair away from her face

he can be current to her,

concurrent to her, oblige
her, keep her steady on her
shaky feet,

hold her hand
as though it means something,

read the novels she reads.

She smears her makeup in
the bathroom mirror, her
mouth tastes like nothing,
her teeth are too straight,
hair too long.

The TV turns on
in the next room,
she sways her hips,
lowers her eyes

she does what she wants to

shame replaced
by age.