Because this is a collegial trip
and we knew each other only
through virtual meetings,
and I’m doing you a favor
introducing you at the panel,
you are blowing up an air mattress
for yourself,
insist I sleep in your bed.
I insist I can’t—please let me lie
on your living room love seat.
No.
You close the door between us,
you say, because, all night, your cat
would jump on and off me.
On and off.
I lie on top of your blue spread
in my yoga pants and leopard T,
study the red numbers on the clock.
Minutes climb to 59,
plummet to the 00
of slow, withholding hours—
the colon pulsing
the seconds between.
Morning, you guide me to your window,
point to an egret by the river’s edge,
its body a white eighth note against ripples,
beak piercing the far bank.
You press two cling-free peaches—
hard, green—into my hands,
and leave so I can shower and dress.
I rinse the raspberries I brought,
eat the crushed overripe,
leave you the plump red mouths
to cool in your single bowl.
