Lena Confesses

I never had time for the strangers
with their barstool philosophies
and their breath like last week’s regrets.
I was too busy admiring the way
the sun hit the Chrysler Building
or falling in love with a painting I saw
for three seconds before the gallery closed.
No, I didn’t wake up next to someone
who looked like Brad Pitt
or even someone who looked like a mistake.
I never carried a loser’s baby –
unless you count the poems I wrote in bed
with mascara still on and no one to read them.
I never sobbed when someone left.
I just turned up Billie Holiday
and danced with the furniture.
No razors, no Saturday night dramas,
just me and the hum of the refrigerator
and maybe a poem about oranges.
The cops never came, not for noise,
not for silence, and I never cried
to a social worker because I don’t believe
in crying unless it’s in a movie and
the popcorn is as salty as tears.
I don’t parade bruises. Pain doesn’t make
me talk. When I really hurt, I just buy
flowers and forget men’s names.
I never said a word about kisses that left lint or drool.
I just wrote their initials in the fog on my mirror
and let the steam erase them.
My mouth is a cathedral, and tongues are tourists.
I don’t confess. I wave at priests
like I wave at taxis, with no intention of getting in.
I smoke, I watch the warmth come toward me
like a lover who’s late but still worth waiting for.
And yes, I look pretty in a new dress.
That’s all you’re getting.
The rest is for the pigeons in Bryant Park
and the ghosts in my coffee.