I stand in line, invisible
in the grocery store
(post-menopausal)
my hair silvering
wearing cargo pants
and a dumb puffer jacket.
Thanksgiving week.
I stare at horrible
corn syrup pies and piles
of bleached, swollen turkeys
entombed in wrinkled
thick industrial plastic.
Who could guess
that within me I am with you
in our pure, nowhere union
of dusk pink, in the absence
of what won’t happen,
the mistake we will not
make, nearness growing
darker, forbidden duet.
