Tobi Alfier
Part I
White polka-dots on cute red dress
from the sample rack at the Here and There
with cleavage just enough for sunglasses
and a hanky. You never know when
those tears will be coming, black stripes
down your face make everything worse.
On barstools you share judgements
of the world, and of yourself, with strangers,
and you are tired of bickering bickering bickering.
You tilt down the rest of your watered down
Cuba Libre, call a couple girlfriends
to meet you at the casino, and glide off
gracefully, leaving a salute of surrender
in your wake. You grab a room, for how long
you don’t know, wash your panties, look through
your purse for cash, credit and lipstick, and wait
in your oasis with walls so thin you feel like a voyeur,
hope there’ll be no bickering from that direction.
Part II
Your room looks like a clothing world exploded.
You borrow a pair of black tights from 1972
and a brilliantly sheer blouse with flowers
and tiny birds like the ones living
under the eaves of your house. You feel free
as you climb into the elevator with your friends.
You all go to dinner. At the fancy restaurant.
Order Kir Royals and Ladie’s Cut Prime Rib,
play Keno, lose at Keno, play again and have dessert.
It’s too early to turn in and count sheep, you all agree.
No snide remarks at dinner, no bickering over men, money,
the bill? You charge it to the room pretty as you please.
You play the slots, flirt with the bartenders,
watch a bride play Blackjack out of the corner
of your eye. She’s still in her dress with hair gone rogue,
7-month belly hiding under the table,
a pile of chips in front and a full ashtray beside her,
the groom nowhere to be seen, just like yours.
Part III
A few moans as faces appear like petals
dropped from a weak morning sun,
except Ava, purse and shoes missing.
She might’ve headed off home to her man
or found a newer one, who knows.
You need food, oh lord, you need something.
You all stumble into the elevator in last night’s clothes
stinking of cigarettes and dirty quarters, but jubilant
at your two-day escape—all your friends needed it, 100 percent.
The elevator air is stained with other people’s ardor.
You don’t have to slave over breakfast for a change
but you’re mindful that this is your last day.
The cook’s name is Chase. You watch him watch you
through the window. A blink of an eye and he’s there,
next to you, slice of pound cake tucked into your purse, a bribe.
You tell him you’re married. Very married. He shrugs.
You blush at the drowsy tempo of his insinuation/invitation but no,
that’s just not you. You eat the pound cake on the way home.
CLAMOR 