Because the reckoning came
on an average tuesday
from a doctor with a young face and old eyes
with a small hole in his right pocket
that his pinky kept escaping through.
Because I hadn’t showered or slept or even changed my underwear,
because these kinds of things, these words,
the words he said, they’re not for us.
A white sky presses against the window and above me
toffee colored ceiling stains in the shape of healthy ovaries
tango like we used to in the old days
cheek to cheek, each pretending to be the other’s dashing future lover
while outside, the roar of Big Sur and the fog and our sweaty hands
lifting the window to the car waiting below
smothered laughs and the boom and the crash
and the wet sand and the beach ﬁres and the thick skunk-smell of pot
and the luxury of it all,
I watch his ﬁnger, pointed and bright against the blue cloth, just the barest tip
anxious and naked.