Her red hair
announces her emergence
from the cinematic gloom.
She had been speaking to herself
before she saw him
and the brief echo
causes him to wonder
if she is the girl who sometimes
weeps drunkenly in the elevator.
He holds the door
to the laundry room
open for her and she
thanks him with a small sound
abandoned by language.
The shirt she’s carrying
is exactly the same
as the one she is wearing
but he can’t imagine what uniform
would be so green, so black,
so distracting in its flattery.
He moves through the dank tropic gloom,
making excuses for her,
as well as for himself,
climbs the four steps
and stands at the edge
of the courtyard,
the ripple of sheets and
underwear above him,
cascade of strange directionless desire
vaulting his heart like sun.
He has swept the alley
of last night’s condoms
and empties, has one last
repair on his scheduled list
and then the day belongs
to him, to her,
and to no one else.