On your porch, two vases of tulips

wilt, predictably: cut

stems, petals just amber, water

sucked up & dingy. A dog snores on the lawn.

You have your feet up, a brand of cigarette

you don’t usually buy dangling

between trimmed nails. Green crust

under chin where your face mask

avoided the splash. A kid bikes by, yells,

WHORE. He is too young to know

that sting. You bite into a tomato & think

of a meal you made with your last lover—

some kind of curry—& end up

masturbating, supine on porch slats. People

walk by, hardly noticing at first. Your lovers’

old names come out of your mouth

before you can catch them.

You try to picture the last one, but

can’t summon his face. A crowd

gathers. Boys sell peanuts, munch

popcorn. They aren't turned on

so much as confused.

You’re a full-time circus act. You moan

to the crowd about a finale, but it’s overcast

suddenly & your audience has left—

except one kid

kicking up mulch by the sidewalk.

He looks down at his white sneakers

& reminds you of lemonade. You adjust

your dress & are taking your plate back inside

when he asks, You don’t want

any dessert? & you think, No, but don’t

have the words to say why just yet.