Bob Bradshaw
MAYBE
We'd come home
from an all night party
six a.m. and the geraniums
pink-faced and crowding the fire escape
as if our homecoming were something
to shoot footage on.
I'd never known anyone
who kept fresh oranges and bananas
lounging in their smudge-free bowls.
Used to fruit sulking.
Not that she couldn't be bitchy.
She played tennis
in white skirts and a blouse trimmed
blue like her china.
You know the type.
But don't sneer. There's something
to be said for an apt. emphasizing stripes:
love seat, towels, spider plants and even
bright fish who drift for hours
interested in the same zebra painting behind their bowl.
I grew tired of being interesting.
Carnations in freshly
pleated petticoats leaned forward from vases,
polite, alert.
I found myself wanting to see a mean
iguana scurrying off into a jungle of hot ferns.
Maybe I missed my chance.
Maybe I should have married her.
Maybe.
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