Professionalism


I sweat my funeral

dress downhill

a regular July,

like rejection,

a stick of black

fabric against open

heat. I’m sorry

nothing not one

second. All weekend

I didn’t

look on you,

check in, nuzzle

my folds —sullen

I sat last

row, spread

my fingers:

spinster. Be patient

with me, shames

that can be always,

counting checks and

blackberries, checking

the mail. It’s been

this way since

I was a child.

We learn unless

we don’t. I won’t

police my thoughts.

I’ll be courteous,

reposed, responsive,

heavy, lazy, gracious,

pizza. Wait for

my weight, its greatness,

pepperoni. I’ll write

my tomb with mint

water, a goose  

I call myself an

embalmment, mannered

or not.