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.