You meet someone, sparks slip around,
and before you know it you're falling
against his front door,
not even making it into his bedroom
to screw and be screwed.
You move into a new apartment
and the first thing you decide to fix
are the loose and missing screws holding the handles
of those stickily-white-painted pre-war cabinets.
Standing in a narrow hardware store aisle,
musty old glue smell confusing you,
the old Orthodox Jewish owner helps
pick out the right size.
Sitting on your kitchen floor,
you tip them out of the small paper bag.
They tinkle, metal against tile, rolling away,
and you chase them down on your knees.
And let's not talk of
what happens when the rent
of that new apartment, and that
momentarily magical man
become too much to handle.
"Screw this," you say, as,
back against that door,
down on the floor again,
you realize that you're screwed.
glossy with faceted colors,
for ankles to sink into.
Those in large element-proof vehicles
laugh at the frustrated pedestrians—
no longer thinking
how pretty the oil-
slicks make the
pock-marked street look.
As oversized tires splash past,
passersby look into the tinted windows,
and jump farther back on the sidewalk,
with spatters on their slickers.
fiction poetry "fact" photography