BLUSH BLESSING

MOLLY PEACOCK

My luxury is in the ordinary when
I step into a crowd of people who grin
at the bus driver as they drop in the exact
change they’ve had time to remember. They’re not in
trouble, it seems, or in chemo, in X ray, in pain; in fact
it seems they’re in own heads, not worrying
whether they or those they love will die or why
things are the way they are. I join their ring,
pearled; their world, adored; and cry their cry
of mild annoyance at the tiny imperfections
we all have time to notice. This attractive
woman on the bus for instance, in a red concoction
of cape and boots below her black hair—just to live
to note this final, off detail!—has put
pink! the wrong color for her outfit, on her lips.
How annoying, her slightly misshaded choice.
(What she needs is a creamy carmine red
the color of her cape.) Darling, when this bus
delivers me home to our clean apartment to be fed
the meal over which I had the time to fuss,
let me make a little fuss about something
insignificant, the malfunction of some silly
piece of hardware, or the wrong hair coloring,
or details for our party, before we pile willy-
nilly into bed with chocolate and video and prepare
to make love. The way a radiator hiss
makes a perfect indoor snow silence hush,
the flicker of a bother trues the world in which we kiss.

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