THEY ALL FORGET
like she owns the place,
marking territory with every smooth pivot of her stiletto
and declares herself at the front desk.
Not your wife,
just an interested party,
the good-time gal
barely remembered from last night.
And as you sit across from her,
thumbing through month old gossip,
unable to place your eyes back in your head,
even for a moment,
she digs sharp-beveled fingernails
tugging at the cling of hem
repositioning her pins in the cushion,
brushes one platinum lock
under the thatch and lace hat
cocked over one eye
growing impatient now,
just because Mr. Good-to-the-last-drop,
has yet to answer his telephone.
Hey, Last Night…
Your twelve-thirty is waiting.