The closest we get
is when she asks for my birth date
to clear the register
when I buy beer or wine.
My attraction to her is as much
shared age as looksó
I like that she's letting her hair
go gray, that she's not quite slim,
that still she wears earrings,
dangling ones, that idly make me think
I might kiss around her ears
as if trying to remind her
of her youth and those acts that embarrass her,
now that she is older.
That she has, or had, a husband or
perhaps a wife, perhaps children
old enough to argue politics with me,
doesn't matter. I like her looks,
the feminine sound of her voice, asking
What's your birthdate?
Then, the nimbleness of her fingers
as she types those six digits in.
It's like a kind of love. Or not.
But it's sure something, anyway.