Poetry by Rosemary Appleton
Out
On catching the bus days, when the swish of my skirt gets caught
on a passenger’s book bag and he looks up – makes that stark, open assessment
I never look away – let him drink in my preparations – the powdered, patted
smoothness of my cheek – ready as a pillow for his drowsy fears
Or on the strap-hanger days, my triceps flexed in my bare arms,
a mermaid in the subway’s sea of pinstripe, sleep dust still
gritting the corners of their reddened eyes, I dip my chin as he stares,
look back unblinking into his eyes and see how he is wondering,
dreaming, thinking of bringing the back of his hand to my face