after Terry Stokes

You are short, soft, and living
in Albuquerque. You hold

a midnight conversation with your latest
best friend. You’re both under

the covers. The radio plays obscure doo-wop
from the 1950s. You’re undercover

as a spy in the house of whatever.
Anais Nin’s got nothing on you.

You hum some shang-a-langs
then go deep in your lungs 

for breathy oohs that would send
me over the moon if only

you’d visit me next door.
I’ll hold the door open for you,

bow severely at the waist.
Follow those rose petals draped

across the floor. They are not
as soft as the cilia of your eyes.