I still like their smell. I still think about us riding
up and down. F.A.O. Schwartz past appropriate age.
Nieman Marcus, upholstered men in their corners.
The smooth cars in Brooklyn Art, bigger than my bedroom.
Remember that bedroom?
The ones I take care of are residential. Post-war, dull-walled.
I want to move to inspection. The ones I see now are always sick.
I'm the vet who lays them out on the table and only sees backsides trotting out.
By the time it hums I pack for the next. I want to hear the oil work.
When did you fall out of love with me?