Moving Day

23 Oct

My stylist shows up at the reception and we quick tumble
into tangles of flirtation: a magnetic, dark-eyed Italian

and a full-length, flattered red head who wishes
nickels vacuumed up at the car wash enough, but I see

she’s made of different stuff.  A couple of weeks we talk,
drink coffee—then admission: for you, I’d change my plans

When she says I shouldn’t, I go back to my apartment.  I’m down
on the rug beside half-filled packing boxes gathering dust

when in my heart like a hush, a painter bends a brush:
always he is furthering a fresco of forgiveness.

Any thoughts?

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