For Sam
The Karen Walker dress fit
perfectly,
as incredible as it displayed in the window
on my young body
Oh, where could I wear
this golden dress?
To all those rehearsal dinners,
evenings out, important events
where the dress clearly states:
I chose not to be married.
But this is untrue, the
unmarried life chose me.
Our eyes met as we brushed past each
other, marching through
Saturday’s Cuba Street crowd.
The tall woman on your left seemed
to be telling you something important,
maybe about the news,
you looked disinterested.
And I know for a moment you thought
I looked old, something familiar.
I wanted to impress you in that instant
somehow stop time,
ask you about the months that come
to die in my room.
Next to the ripe peaches sitting under
Wellingtons’ stars I listened of your monarches,
and fieldwork years ago (you old man).
Although we barley nodded I keep the
knowledge that you moved here to
paint the ocean.
You keep how insecure I feel about
being a graduate student.
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