15 September 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 3

Retirement

by BRIANNA KATHLEEN RECKEWEG

Always said we'd travel, but he's busy

as a dust storm and done already landed

where he's like to stay, the ground

floor a that new fancy store in Hayford

that smells all through like perfume, and sounds

like high heels clackin in circles. Got all those feet

in his hands all day—narrow ones,

and painted ones, size six and a half to nine,

all pressin his thumbs on empty toes

and sayin that's just right. Sayin how can

I help you miss then doin it, slippin

little nylons ankle round and fittin in

the show horn, a little box in every

pair a arms. I know he's just pretendin,

just remembers touchin skin that young

in pick-up trucks, on porches, and wants to

get back to them soft places. Don't know if

my husband's workin up to anything

but heaven at this point, but he's sure gone back

to somethin. Hourly wage again, and back

to gentleness, to lovin a woman

for just bein that. Don't mind. What good

would it do and 'sides, got my own thang.

The intimates department where I hang lace

and watch the tallish twenty somethins

pick between em, all sex and confidence.

Makes me think a all them romances I had

as Charles rubs my tired feet at night

and, sure as rain, he thinks bout all a his.