For tonight, let’s forget those cellophane squares

jammed shamefully between the slats of the rattling air conditioner

sweetening the air with spearmint and horehound—

the kind of candies old men keep tucked

along the crease of monikered kerchiefs

and press into my palms as payment

for copies, or a smile, or the chance to brush by me

in the file room with their starched blue coats

scraping the rayon of my dress.
 

For tonight, let’s pretend this fluttering is the wings

of a thousand moths hanging here to taste dust

from the slats of the broken window unit,

not tokens of a currency in sweets

I have carried out since childhood.

Once, you accused me of building my own Point de Artes

along our bedroom wall. This was before we knew

the weight of too many gestures could

bring the footbridge down.