Your seven lemons in the bowl from Faro
have grown small and hard. And asymmetric
shadows are rising, walking
the dry afternoon down the stairs.
there is only a stream of toe scuff
minutes, heel/note, heel/note, thin quavers
through the eye of the radio.
The red-haired dancer from the other
agency has finally appeared, sheaves
of music in her hand.
Outside the window,
the bus arrives
and arrives. If you do not come back
by tomorrow noon, I will have hired her.