I’m old enough to be your mother.
she and I have coffee on Tuesdays
and I plug my ears as she talks
about your dysfunctions
how long you wet the bed
your acne and the way your thighs
chafe from blue jean seams.
she hates your blowup girlfriend
her pierced tongue and firm parts
and I might hate her too
if I were listening to the plot
that brews beneath each sip.
when she gets up to pee I breathe.
I see you in the pass through
shirtless in jeans, your hair wet.
you reach into the still life with fruit
seductive prop on the counter
and take the first apple like you own it
winking as you bite, soundless, slow,
spray of juice glistening on your cheek.
and I can’t help but wonder
about the fruit, the grapes plump
and fragrant, the pears and berries
plucked ripe, can’t help but wonder
if you have outgrown the irritation
to denim, what it’s like to have a stud
on the tongue and what in the name
of god is keeping your mother.