you come back to me in a memory
of frantic morning primping,
a hurricane of flat-ironed hair and unironed pants.
the bathroom mirror still fogged
by your shower and breath as you squintingly apply eyeliner, shouting
“time check!” every few minutes.
you are always late.
it takes some time to trace the memories
of women i have loved and not deserved
before i get to your name and face,
two words instead mean the essence of you.
i have never been good with time.
i have never been good with months or years.
i looked after those hands with unblinking dedication.
and
sleepless tuesday mornings, i wonder
who it is that now attends
to the ticking of your clocks.
Punch-in-the-Face Poetry 