A makeshift crap game in
a Spanish Harlem dive –
furious men spilling ivories
down a length of frayed carpet –
“Craps,” yells one –
he’s the only guy that doesn’t curse –
he’s saving it for the next roll.

So what am I doing here?
Candy for a loser’s eyes to lick?
A prize cup for the winner?

None of the above.
If I want to be Mitch’s girl
I have to follow him down into the sucker’s den.

It doesn’t bother me
that it’s strictly a men’s game here.
I like that I’m alone somewhere,
that I can feel the curve of myself,
everywhere, just by leaning
with my elbow on a table,
and my hands marking time
on my laminated drum.
Can the earth say the same?
Can any of these luck-besotted fools
as they suck on dice
like it’s their mother’s teat?

Some old dog ex-Marine
gives me his best come-on stare.
He just gets blankness in return.
My eyes are my favorite restraint.
I know the rules.
I know I occupy a woman’s place.
I’m just not that woman.
                        

My cell rings.
A semi-familiar voice asks,
“What’s up?”

How do I make
morning breath,
untidy hair, droopy eyes,
limp body,
sound the least bit
interesting and appealing.

Why can’t he call
when I’m bungee-jumping out
of my second-story window.
Or giving yoga lessons
to the married couple in the apartment below.
Or rehearsing my trick-cycle act.
Or swallowing a sword.

Instead, he gets a woman
who’s just begun her first coffee.
And the cup is not tottering
on the tip of my tongue.
The pajama top stain
is from yesterday.