In a suburban train station I read Carrowmore with a butcher noise

from a seven dollar Alibris.com paperback,

when she asked me,

in that way she asked me,

you know,

reclining on the brocade and flounce, with her fireplace and all

the old masters crackling on a wall,

stitched

with all those eyes,

for a word,

and I said, “Money—

moor,

mummy, Moline.”

I said, “I know you women

know pain when you see it,             real pain,

when you see it.

Will you help me love me while I show you?”

A lady’s man, one of them cackled from the back bench

of the Glen Ellyn train station

as

I put the book back in my bag,

those boys

busy mugging

for the cover

of the next issue

of ‘Boys Will Be Boys With Money,’ and I was left

bereft at the window bundled in my soft red scarf,

and I couldn’t bear their shoulders

so

I moved to get out,

where the winter was coming down

when one of them goes, he doesn’t like us.

But you know all about that kind of thing.

So what about that kiss,

that warm rejoinder,

or that goblet brimming

with Chateau Lafite?

Hey,

can we talk about Emily D. awhile?

Ask me for a Word—

Money—moor—

mummy—Moline—