Her Average Day

HER AVERAGE DAY

She slides into her room,
private, alone,
peels off her average day
one layer at a time.

Before the window
she strips off nylons,
jewelry, the cross at her throat.
Flips hairpins onto the bureau
then leans naked over the window sill
into the bat-black.

She balls her stockings
and hurls them,
blinking,
into the street below.

He races along
head down,
late for the bus,
until the sheer leg-skin
caresses his down turned face,
curling as a lover might
across his shoulder.

He draws it close,
breathing in the remnants
of her average day.
He sees legs crossed under a desk
imagines feet clacking along concrete
his mind’s eye following
the legs as they walk upstairs.

He balls the hosiery
and stuffs them
unthinking
into the pocket of his coat.

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Shared with DVerse Poets from a prompt about "windows," which brought this piece immediately to mind.

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This poem appeared in "One Night Stanzas"

 available from Big Table Publishing.

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©2009 Christopher Reilley

 
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