maybe this morning

The bed sagged in the middle and of course there were no sheets

she slept with her feet hanging off the side because the city had stolen her shoes and her soles spent the night picking up all the soot that Frenchman Street had laid down for her

It was heavy on a Sunday and when you woke up the screen door banged

She was outside in that white dress when you sat down and perhaps in your own peculiar way apologized

She said, you scared me in that alley last night

you said, you were scared of her too but you couldn't tell her why, you couldn't give it all away just yet

then, somewhere, a breezy corner lifts the curtain from a window and time becomes the bridge over the fairground and the two of you are walking across it sharing little bowls of the things you want to fill each other with

She is trying to learn what it means when you angle your eyebrows and you keep asking her for words instead of the soft looks she serves you to keep herself away 

now in the shower you are sharing a single stream. Sleep has left you in the same corner where the taxis wouldn’t come

Here she wonders when you’ll tell her the end of your secret and how much she really scares you and why and if she'll ever be okay with letting you in