my city, my rules


she smells of ambre nuit
by Dior

in jeans cut perfectly
with a skin-tight black leotard
square neckline
dark sleek hair,
skin warm and glinting

off the soft purples
of the arcade bar’s glow.


she takes my hand
to move away
from lit-up pinball machines

and spins me 

on a makeshift dance floor
in front of a listless dj
my lavender silk skirt
circling me widely
like the most
divine feminine gift 

when she demands,

“why is no one else dancing?”

in her Jennifer Tilly voice.



Bea is ageless at forty-eight:

Cleopatra’s intensity
challenged
by
 a hundred-watt smile,

made brighter
by beating cancer.



maybe we are ridiculous

to this room of twenty-somethings,

or invisible,
as I’d like to be

singing “so needless to say”

with a-ha
forgetting to ask

any dull questions.



Bea steals my tall black can
and laughs her rich and curling laugh

“are you seriously drinking water?!”

(Daily Writing 082)