I was your bank teller.
You’d deposit packs of gum and over the counter hugs,
withdraw my pocketed hands,
our knuckles met and buckled.
Between shifts, your arm would belt my waist.
I’d waltz, step out of your circle,
and pocket my hands. Your expression was a Picasso:
scrunched lips, slanted eyebrows,
shoulder peaks topped your cartilage.
My eyes would roll, topple.
Stare would stretch onto the shore that was you.
He didn’t know about us.
Your fingers were legs,
acrylic nails were high heels, that strut
across my forearm and perched on my shoulder.
Acrylics would click and I thought:
there’s no place like home. He’d call.
I’d recline my seat back. Our hands would
crash, fingers would ripple, palms would surf.
Acrylics tickled my wrist. I’d whisper into the phone,
crack a laugh over my shoulder and watch your pupils blossom.
I closed the bank on days it rained.
You sprawled out on the couch. Your
umbrella – black tattered bat wings – hooked
your belt loop. We made eye contact from across
the room. Pennies spun in your eyes. I pushed through
the door, unhinged my hood. Rain puddled in my hands,
I had nothing left to give you. The umbrella’s wings tousled
in the wind. You grabbed for my hand, I kept them pocketed.
Over your head, the umbrella opened like legs.
Your penny eyes stopped mid-spin.
“Don’t you want to be romantic with me?”