On Broadway and Other Details

I.

When you sang on stage,
Cynthia White,
I stared at your neck;
Noticing
your vocal cords rise and fall
like tides
on a full moon night.

Your voice itself
so moist and soft,
they nourished my ears
and soothed my mind.
And washed my body
in ripples of sound,
dissolving out of sight.

II.

At the Accounting workshop,
last Monday night,
you wore a necklace
with shiny beads
the color of boiling milk -
Round and smooth like marbles
onto which the ceiling lights
reflected.

I wanted
so desperately
to grab it from your neck
and put it around my own,
paint my eye lids
dark burgundy,
and my lips,
a grassy green,
wear a dress
of Chantilly lace
and dance a mazurka
to the anthem of winds
bellowing outside our window.

Instead,
I punched numbers
into a mechanical calculator
and took interview notes
in my yellow Moleskine,
bowing to the needs
of professional demands -
To make businesses thrive
across numerous generations
and build
a perfect world.

III.

In the cafeteria
on Washington Street,
you adjusted your glasses,
cleared your throat,
craned your neck
over a cup of Joe,
and asked in a whisper -
Are you in love with me?

I said,
No,
staring at a bunch of pink anemones
seated in a vase
at the center of our table.

You said,
Really?
Oh.
Okay.
I thought you were.

Shame flooded your cheeks,
and knelt over your eyes.
And we lowered our heads
rattled our spoons,
watched the streams
of morning sunlight
peering through tops
of honeylocust branches -
while the speakers overhead
played on repeat
Donna Summer's
Love you Baby.